


Like Love, The Archers Are Blind

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Friends to Lovers, Hamburg Era, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of girlfriends, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-24 06:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21333745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: He wants to push Stuart out of the way, not even with a violent yank of his collar like he sometimes imagines. Just to melt into his place like butter sliding in a pan. Have it be an effortless breath of fresh air when John looks up at him and sees it all reflected back in his eyes. It’s you.Hamburg, 1960.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 37
Kudos: 177





	1. Denied the Thrill That Love Imparts

**Author's Note:**

> I humbly present to you the Hamburg fic that has been rolling around my brain for years.  
It has finally taken shape and I hope you all enjoy. The title is from the beautiful poem 'Before The Dawn' by Federico García Lorca.  
The title of this first chapter is from one of Stuart Sutcliffe's poems.  
Say hello on tumblr, I’m thisbirdhadflownx. [Here](https://thisbirdhadflownx.tumblr.com/post/188857822439/like-love-the-archers-are-blind) is the post for the fic.

The familiar crackling of jealousy sparks its white hot embers when Paul sees them saunter out the door and into the damp cold night. The club is rumbling with rock and roll music, pints filled to the brim being passed around carelessly, and right in the womb of the all this dizzy chaos he stands with two beers held by their necks in his fists while he watches the door swing on it’s hinges and eventually settle closed. It’s as though something important has been blotted out with black and the honey-warm buzz of his tipsiness sours into a stark sobriety. The cool condensation of the bottles dripping over his fingers, the flush of heat behind his ribcage. The vibrant, fiery temptation to follow them, the icey knowledge that John won’t want him there.  With one last bitter glance, he seeks out comfort with his two new friends, downing the pale gold drinks and tapping his toes along with the beat of the music. 

At first, Hamburg had been a kind of gritty erotic fantasy. The dangerous allure of the neon signs and the total abandonment of uptight morals had them all thoroughly charged and eager. And it’s not as though that feeling as died off completely, but the state of this city gets to him sometimes. The dead-eyed prostitutes on street corners, how club-goers nonchalantly step over the homeless men passed out on the pavement with empty liquor bottles tucked under their tattered coats. 

Sometimes he truly feels as though he’s walking through humanity’s ruins. He hopes it doesn’t get to him, that sadness. He wants rock and roll, great laughs and their band to be the greatest in Hamburg. And for John to quit it with his Sutcliffe obsession. 

-

Stuart is lounging on the grotty mattress of the bottom bunk in their makeshift quarters in the cinema storeroom and John is rustling through his bag, tossing items of clothing out behind him as he does so. Paul is curled up, back turned to them with his eyes shut as his head throbs with a cruel headache. Must be coming down from the prellies he’d gulped down before their last gig. The soft sounds of Stuart sketching with charcoal seem to grate at his ears more than anything else. The crinkling and rattling of the pages is driving him mad, making him cringe and shudder. He rolls over, propping himself up on his elbows and looks over at the pair with accusing eyes.

On the floor by Stuart’s feet is a portrait of John, a ring of a beer bottle stain acting as a halo around his face, cutting through the long nose halfway. It seems to watch Paul as John continues his search turned away from him. 

“Anyone got a spare rubber? Can’t trust that Nazi plastic,” John cracks a sly grin when he stands up and glances over at Paul.

“An English gentleman always comes prepared, John,” Stuart muses with a grin, not looking up from his work.

“Clever,” John beams, kicking a pair of Pete’s jeans out of the way as he scans the floor with his eyes, squinting. Paul finds himself straining for something to say, but anything remotely witty or worthy floats off when John looks at him suddenly and regards him with curious tilt of his head.

“Guess I’ll just have to go without,” he says, and the vibrations of his sleep-soaked rumbling voice drum up against Paul’s chest. 

He stays like that, just eyeing him up and down for a long moment before snatching his leather jacket from where it hung over the top bunk bed railing and shrugging it over his shoulders.

“You off already?” Stuart asks, this time looking up as John heads towards the door.

“I’m starving. Need to fill me gut with something that isn’t alcohol or a pill,” he replies, tossing a look over his shoulder at Paul, “You coming, then?”

He perks up at that, a little thrill zipping through him as he wordlessly reaches for his own jacket and swings his legs over the bed and follows his mate, a sense of satisfaction and relief as he kicks the door closed behind him, leaving Stuart behind.

-

The bass, it all it’s shining glory, is cradled in Stuart’s arms as he fingers the strings with his pale spindly digits. The undercurrent of clumsy noise puts Paul on edge, tongue dragging across his teeth as he eyes the bass player gossiping with John at the other end of the stage.  He’s exhausted and hyped up all at once, covered in a thin film of sweat. He can feel himself shaking and he doesn’t know what end of the spectrum of energy exactly is causing it, just hoping he can keep somewhat steady on his feet until he is able to crash somewhere with a slightly more cushioned landing. The audience seems to be filled with both extremes as well, from the weary workers and sailors through to the vibrant girls in short dresses dancing with lanky German boys as George plays a long improvised solo that’ll save them from having to completely ruin their voices after singing for hours.  The club has all of their lights turned on them, white and burning into his eyes in a way he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. He turns his frame round so he can look over at what John is doing, and laughs when he finds that he has started to dance around like a gorilla, making the appropriate noises and pulling ridiculous faces. If only he had Mike’s camera. Though, he doesn’t think a photograph would ever do John justice. He needs to be animated, just like this. He needs to be heard. Seen to be believed, he thinks with a smile.  John hops about on the stage, eliciting laughs and cheers from the audience. As he bends his knees his leather pants tighten around his thighs and Paul’s eyes linger there for a cloudy moment before he can turn his attention back to the chord progression as the song comes to a close. 

“Thank you, thank you,” John puts on a sloppy Elvis impression and bows, “It’s been a pleasure, but now we’re off to get some fucking sleep!”

With that, they all slink off stage, Paul heading straight for the gents room to splash some cold water on his face and run some of the cheap hand soap over and under his arms to combat the slimy sweaty feeling he’d rather not take with him to bed while he can manage it.  As bleak as it is, scrubbing themselves down at the sinks while cinema-goers file in to relieve their bladders, he takes comfort in the fact that they can move up from this. Get more experience, better gigs. The moaning of the plumbing and the grime on the mirror isn’t so bad while the sweet promise of success stays at the forefront of his mind. 

George enters the bathroom just as he’s pulling his shirt back over his head, tossing soaked paper towels into the overflowing bin under the sink.

“Thought you’d be with John,” he comments through a yawn as he approaches the urinals. Paul feels a flush of embarrassment at that, feigning carelessness as he inspects his face in the mirror, running his fingertips over the darkness under his eyes. 

“Nah, I’m knackered. Gonna head for bed,” he sighs, “He out drinking with Stu?”

George hums in affirmation, “If they’re going to pull, I just hope they don’t end up in our room. Don’t need to hear them grunting while I’m trying to sleep.”

A feeling, red-hot and fuzzy, rises up from the pit of his chest into his throat and he can’t force out any casual phrase, so he settles on a sleepy wave of his hand and exits the room. 

He slips into his bed, resting his head on a small pile of his laundry, George’s words on a lazy loop in his head. It’s like a record spinning, the edges of his voice a little fuzzy but otherwise perfectly clear. And the implications more so. 

Hazy flashes of John and Stuart stumbling through the doorway with girls under their arms, climbing into their respective bunks and going at it float through his aching skull. The room soaked in navy darkness, their pale sweaty backs shifting under cheap blankets. John huffing and groaning as slender digits drag down his spine-

Paul licks over his lips and tries to drown out the sudden burst of sound of women’s voices in the bathroom next door with his own steady breathing, pushing indecent thoughts aside. 

-

Harold’s cafe serves them plates of greasy food in the early hours of the afternoon when they emerge from hibernation. Paul is pressed between the window and John, Stuart sitting across from him chatting with George about the lyrics of a song they plan to learn the chords to. 

John nudges him in the ribs with his elbow, though not roughly, and asks, “You went straight to bed last night?”

“Yeah. Lights out early for me,” Paul pokes at the remaining few mouthfuls of beans on his plate, feeling a little flicker of relief that John didn’t forget about him completely. 

“Soft,” John teases, scooping up some unbuttered toast into his mouth, “Laid some groundwork with that bird who turned down Pete.”

“She didn’t turn me down,” the drummer interjects and lifts his fork in protest, frowning, “I never went after her in the first place! Got with her friend in the blue dress.”

John taps his fork loudly against his plate to drown out the drummer, making Paul giggle despite the sharp pain the noise induced. 

“She knows just about three words in english-” John starts before Paul cuts in.

“Hopefully they were ‘Get lost, wanker’,” he cackles as John shoves him lightly and pushes him closer to the window, not minding the press of John’s side remaining there. He never minds it.

“May as well have been,” Stuart laughs, “Never got anywhere with her, did ye?”

John picks up a soggy piece of bread and lobs it at him, laughing when it bounces off his nose and onto his plate, “I don’t need to bribe the fraulines with doodles on napkins to get them into bed, mate.”

“Yeah, you just go straight to begging, don’t you?” George pipes up, flashing a bright smile as John pinches a piece of sausage from Pete’s plate and flicks it at George’s face.

“Oi! I was saving that,” Pete whines, smacking John’s hand away from his plate.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got enough sausage for the both of us,” John quips cheekily, “Isn’t that right, Olga?”

Olga, the middle-aged waitress with a permanent aloof expression cast on her tired face, doesn’t respond as she stacks up their empty plates onto her tray. Her mouth stays down-turned as the other boys laugh, and her eyelids stay drooped over her grey eyes as John bats his eyelashes at her in an exaggerated fashion. Pete just shakes his head, pressing his palms up to his eyes. 

“It’ll be blood sausage if you keep this up,” Paul remarks, making John burst with laughter, leaning closer into his shoulder. His knuckles grazing lightly over Paul’s thigh for moment. 

Pete pulls himself out of the booth, stretching his arms out in front of him, “Right, well, I’m off. Seeing another band play at the Kaiser.”

George casts a glance up at the clock on the wall and decides to join him, waving goodbye even if Paul is the only one that bothers responding.

“Three cool cats,” Stuart half sings, mind wandering off somewhere distant as he drinks up the last of his water from a cloudy glass. Paul feels a twist of dread in his stomach at the prospect of being the third wheel to John and Stuart’s bicycle of best-friendship. He knows he’ll hate it, being pushed aside and ignored. Feigning interest when the artist starts going on about some author he and John learned about from Rod. What John and Stuart possess is something he’ll probably never have a proper insight to, their bubble only has room for two, it seems. He sticks around because there are these little glimmers sometimes. Pieces of John he’d miss out on otherwise. Moments where its only them, things only they could understand. He treasures it all as if it might suddenly end, a book snapping shut. 

“There’s a cinema showing films in English a few streets up from here,” Stuart breaks the silence, “Could go see if there’s anything good.”

John brightens like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week.

-

They manage to tumble into the small theatre by the time Jailhouse Rock really starts, much to the annoyance of a couple of tourists sitting a few rows in front of them.  The room is dark and dusty, the sound is tinny and crackles when there’s a sudden inflation of noise, but Paul can’t help but feel truly at home right now. He knows John feels the same, glancing at the boy next to him brighten as the light from the screen bounces back and ignites him like a spotlight.

He’s practically vibrating with joy, Paul can feel it. He can sense him beaming at certain bits of dialogue. See him mouthing along to the words as he rocks a little in his seat. And Paul has to bite down the smile that’s bubbling up, so warm and endeared by how unashamedly gleeful his best mate is now.

Back in Liverpool they used to go on double dates with Dot and Cyn. He can clearly remember, during some sloppy romance picture he thinks, John had leaned back in his seat to look past the back of the girl’s heads and pulled a face at him. Paul had pursed his lips to keep from giggling, shifting in his seat and throwing his arm over Dot’s shoulders to pull her in closer just for something to do. 

He remembers later, within minutes, the quiet wet sounds of the other couple kissing, how his eyes had drifted as he sank back in his chair to get a glimpse of them. John with his eyes closed, hand snaking up the back of Cyn’s shirt as they pressed themselves closer and closer together. His stomach swooped, feeling all tight and frantic without much reason. He curled his arm to pull Dot in closer, to feel her mouth on his collar. Her hand on his thigh, dragging slowly up and up. His mind full of cinematic buzzing light, John murmuring as the music swelled in the theatre. At the time it had seemed so impossibly loud, like his ears would be ringing for days. Sinking as far back into the chair as he could, head turning lazily just in time to catch John staring right back at him. 

The warm press of John’s forearm against his disappears as he leans over to his left to whisper something in Stu’s ear. It scrapes against a raw nerve, has him retracting his arm from in between them and resting it over his waist. He realises how dainty he looks, positioned like this, and quickly corrects himself. The leather of John’s jacket rustles a little as he readjusts his posture and Paul is so tempted look over at him, but feels like it would be wrong. He’s always looking at John too much. 

He hears murmuring and then the distinct Lennon scoff and eventual snickering from the two of them, and the ever-present knife that’s been lodged into the center of his chest ever since Stuart first showed up twists and he almost has to curl his fingers into fists to keep the tension at bay. His jaw clenches tight around his tongue in probably the very same way John can’t.

Unable to concentrate on the movie, the joy being sucked out of it now that John has his back practically turned completely to him, his mind drifts back into the crimson memory of his hand gliding over the soft skin of Dot’s thigh, arousal burning in his lap. Further away, John’s restrained growl and way it had made Paul shiver, made him brainless enough to look up again, only to feel biting disappointment when all there was to see was Cyn’s blonde hair. 

Sex stands on every street corner, is tucked in every alleyway and obscured by every shadow the neon lights don’t burn into. And maybe that’s what has him so mad about the fact he’s half hard right now, craving a decent release. His legs feel stiff, feet full of lead, refusing to walk himself to the nearest cubicle to have a wank. That’d just be pathetic. But still, he feels on edge and restless. Burning up in his place and John’s whispering only aggravates it all. He wants to lash out, tell him to shut up. But that doesn’t stop John from wanting to talk to Stuart. Doesn’t stop him from turning to his left when he sparks up with a witty quip or dirty joke. 

When the film finishes and they finally step out onto the street again, Paul desperately fishes out a spare ciggie and a lighter from his pocket. His thumb hastily flicks until a flame shoots up and ignites the end of the smoke. It’s something to do, an excuse to shove his hand into his pocket and press his back into the cool brick wall and not look at John for a second. Not let himself get all tangled up in stupid jealousy. 

The two of them are mimicking Elvis’ dances, shaking their hips and humming all low and stuttered with their faces pulled into stupid smolders. As amusing as their display is, it feels like another blow to his ego. Another loss Stu can add to his tally count. He imagines they’re both in some sort of prison cell, Stuart drawing up another mark on the grey wall under his name. That is, if he cares enough to count. He can’t tell with Stu, doesn’t know him well enough to gauge whether he even gives a shit about how much of John’s attention he soaks up. Seems pretty mellow about the whole thing most of the time. Guess Paul had been too, at one point. The thought brings him down a bit, sucking in puffs of smoke and expelling them over his shoulder as he trails along back towards the Indra club. Maybe that’s not quite true. Maybe he’s always cared this much.

-

“Heil fucking Hitler!!” John shouts, throwing his arms over his head and jumping off the stage and onto a nearby table, wobbling a little before throwing himself to the floor. The patrons of the club react in a loud mix of amusement and anger as he drunkenly staggers forward holding a black hair comb under his nose and yells in nonsense-German. 

Paul had been sharing a small bowl of mixed nuts with the rest of the band down by the bar, waiting for Rory and the rest of his guys to finish up their gig and join them for a proper night out.

George just shakes his head with a lop-sided smile, “We’ll never get to play here if he keeps it up.”

Paul isn’t too worried about it, they’re getting popular at the Indra. Getting good buzz amongst the now steady stream of regulars and the fresh faces that wander in. They’ll be playing here at the Kaiserkeller soon enough. He chews thoughtfully, tearing his eyes from where John is continuing to rant and rave. 

“Nah, got it sorted. I bought Ringo a plate of pancakes yesterday, he owes us a good word,” Stuart jokes lightly, taking a swig from his deep-amber hued beer. The dark shadows have cast chasms under his cheekbones, but somehow he doesn’t look sickly. Just looks like regular brilliant art-prodigy Stuart. 

John stumbles up to them, pressing his palms flat against the sticky surface of the table and leans across, baring his teeth in a manic grin, “Evening, lads.”

“ _ Morning _ , Johnny,” George huffs a laugh and tugs at his sleeve, but John's eyes are fixed on Paul. It lasts long enough for him to feel self-conscious and then it’s over.

“Gonna pull that bird tonight,” he stresses, waving his finger in Pete’s direction. The drummer thankfully has his attention captured by a barmaid with flaking make-up and a neckline low enough to have had Paul momentarily enticed. 

“What? The one you were talking about at breakfast?” George asks, twisting around in his chair to inspect the patrons, looking out for the mystery lady.

“Yeah,” John stretches out the word, “Go-gonna do it.  _ Have to _ .”

Paul swallows hard, noting the moonlight pale of John’s neck exposed where the light hits him, where the beads of sweat would trail down during performances. Where Paul imagines a Bridgette Bardot-type to latch on with scarlet painted lips as they grind together in the privacy of John’s bunk. 

A fluttering feeling nips at the edges of his consciousness, watching John watch him, waiting for something to happen. It ends in a fizzle though, John simply turning his attention to the bowl in the middle of the table and clumsily scooping up a handful of peanuts to pour into his mouth, head thrown back in a way that reminds Paul of things he really shouldn’t be thinking about. 

Since the incident at the cinema, he’s been feeling wary. Tense and alert in a way he shouldn’t be, not even with all the pills in his system. He runs his thumb over his lips, plump and chapped, remembers how his mum would demand that he have a big drink of water if she ever saw his lips flaking and dry. And then he thinks how she’d probably recoil in absolute horror at what he’s doing to himself right now in Hamburg.

John had made a crack about how his liver has probably gone black by now. It hadn’t struck him as funny though, instead he felt a kind of anxiety claw at his stomach. It gets him thinking about people who drown themselves knowingly, and it worries him.

There are mothers in Liverpool that sit and stew in the bottom of wine bottles while their husbands are at work. They stand in their backyards and chain smoke when they have finally put their kids to bed. They’ve got yellow tinged skin and milky eyes, a deep sadness that you can’t ignore. Someone told him once, ‘ _ You get too far into a habit, you can’t get out. And then you stop wanting to _ ’. 

He thinks about all the things a person could want to drown out, because everyone’s got one or two. And yeah, maybe he wishes he could douse certain thoughts he has every now and then until they are no longer there. Music does just that - makes all the strange and awful things fade into the background. Most of the time. He knows to keep his mouth shut about that stuff though, John might be the only person he’s ever allowed himself to open the floodgates to. And that’s healthy, he figures. Having someone he can pour his heart out to, even if it’s just a fraction of the storm.

John’s sensibility is a constant ebb and flow. Sometimes he’ll just fess up to Paul about what’s bothering him, albeit with some encouragement. And then other times he will clamp his mouth shut around a beer and sulk bitterly until some unfortunate sod messes up and becomes the victim of a cruel quip or a violent threat. Some fires just can’t be put out, Paul figures. 

_ Gonna pull that bird tonight. Have to. _

He has brought himself down into a stubborn ebony state, sadness pressing cold over him. With a frown, he pushes back his chair with a loud scrape and stands himself up on shaky legs. 

“Off to bed, not feeling too great,” he explains, a swirling feeling in his belly when John reaches out for his arm and pulls him back gently.

“What’s wrong?” he seems to be genuinely bothered by this, and Paul hates that it actually makes a bit of a difference to the state he’s in.

“Feeling ill. Tired. Need a proper kip,” he says, attention turned to where John’s calloused fingers press into his arm. 

“Yeah?” John blinks slowly, earnestly looking over him in a way that has Paul frozen with his mind a stretch of absolute stark white heat. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, “I’ll catch you before we go on, alright?” 

“Alright,” John responds with slow drag of his teeth over his bottom lip, but his hand keeps it’s light grip until Paul steps back, wishing it all didn’t make him second guess his choice. 

Because older boy is just standing there, blinking at him with that glazed over look he gets when he’s exhausted and too drunk to fight it. And Paul can see how he’s trying to keep himself steady and upright, trying to squint against the steely shadows of the club and work out what’s going on. And he feels like the breath has been knocked out of him, like there are flames licking up his throat and  _ he has to leave _ . 

It’s an almost-blind stumble back to his room, fingers all fuzzy and stomach all knotted. He keeps thinking about John and Stu in the cinema. About John and his mystery girl. About how he’s been sinking, slow and syrup-like, into a place he doesn’t quite understand. John is driving him mad, he can’t stand it. The cherry red swell of his heart when he looks at him with deliberate intent and bright amusement. The frost that forms in his absence. It’s getting too much, too intense to make any sense of without his mind straying off the path of normalcy. 

He trips up over stack of discarded shirts, falls onto his knees beside his bunk with a defeated huff. It’s like his lungs are full of rosewood static, and when he presses his hand across his sternum he can feel it envelop his entire body like vines stretching over his skin. He rolls over into the bed with a groan.

It unfolds like ancient yellowed paper, so thin it might break apart at the lightest touch. It rattles as it blooms in his chest. He can’t push it down. The cinema. All of John’s restless squirming and whispering digging into Paul’s already bruised patience. How he wanted so badly for John to reach over so that he could feel the imprint of his hand pressing over his thigh in the inky darkness. 

He can’t ever be truly mad at him. Because his frustration melts like sugar on his tongue when he thinks about them sat across from each with their guitars and a notebook between them. Thinks about riding on the bus together with greasy packets of chips, stalking through record stores and strolling by the docks. How familiar and comfortable it feels to be together. What they have is too golden, too warm to ever stray from. And now he’s drowning in it.

He tries to furiously blink out the wetness of his eyes, tries to shiver out the feverish heat creeping up his spine at the thought John might burst through that door to be with him; and not pressed against the cracked tiles of the bathroom wall with a pretty blonde girl on her knees in front of him.  All of his sense is sucked up in the vacuum of arousal as his hand glides over his crotch. Gnawing on his lip to keep from a cry spilling over from the tension held in his jaw, he unzips his leather pants and allows his fingers to dip under the waistband. 

Goosebumps like needlepoints up and down his sweat-tacky skin, now imagining Stuart kneeling in that bathroom stall with John standing over him, fingers threaded through his hair. The two of them panting and slack jawed, just like Paul is now as he takes shaky inhales of the stale air and squeezes his eyes shut. He hates it, helpless anger unfurling as he ruminates over the shape of John’s jaw, how sharp and strong it is when he tilts his head back.  His mind rolls further and further, imagines himself backed against the chipped wood of the door as he watches them. John eyeing him, beckoning him closer with just a look. The gravitational pull, like he’s being brought up from underwater without moving a muscle.  He wants to push Stuart out of the way, not even with a violent yank of his collar like he sometimes imagines. Just to melt into his place like butter sliding in a pan. Have it be an effortless breath of fresh air when John looks up at him and sees it all reflected back in his eyes.  _ It’s you. _

The door swings open, and every muscle in Paul’s body retracts into tight coiled up tension as he twists violently over onto his side and brings his knees up, grasping desperately for the blanket bunched up near his feet. 

“You still awake?” John’s voice sounds more like a croak, and it has Paul almost ill. 

“Ugh, yeah, can’t… can’t settle,” Paul pushes through shakily as he white-knuckles around the edge of the blanket, now pulled up to his chest.

He can hear John’s heavy footsteps, the sigh of the opposite mattress as it sinks under his weight, “The rest of the lads went out with Rory and his guys. Couldn’t be fucked.”

His first thought is a dangerous one, and it sits on his tongue for an anxious beat before he can actually manage to get the words out, “Thought you were goin’ after that bird of yours.” 

There’s a rustling sound and a nonchalant grunt, “I dunno... Too drunk.”

Paul considers his reply, eyes trailing over the scratches in the dull grey wall just centimeters from his nose, “Fair enough.”

“Could just ‘ave a wank in here, couldn’t I?”

The sweat around his flushed neck goes cold.

John snickers, “ _ Can’t settle _ .”

Paul clenches his jaw tight, “Fuck off.”

“Couldn’t even get yerself a whore off the street to give ye a handy, poor Pau-”

“ _ Fuck off _ , John,” he hisses with more venom than he was aware he was holding. 

A beat goes by before John responds with a scoff, “Christ. What’s got you all uptight?”

He swallows hard, wanting the mattress to swallow him up so he doesn’t have to deal with this. The sting of embarrassment as he remembers himself as stiff as a statue in that cinema. He can’t handle it, not now, still hard and aching and scared shitless of what it all means.

He launches himself off of the bed and storms towards the door, tugging up his pants and tucking in his shirt hurriedly, “You don’t give a shit, do ya?”

If John says something, it’s lost under the thunderous clap of the door slamming behind him as he bolts towards the backdoor of the establishment as if the ground beneath his feet was crumbling under each weighted step. 

-

The miserable slink back to the Indra club is tortuous. Paul stands by the door with his hands in his pockets and kicks at loose pebbles on the pavement with acute dread now pressing on him like dead weight. His face feels hot, mortified by his outburst and already trying to process the impending cutting remarks John will spout. But more than anything feeling nauseating regret, giving John another reason to be turned off by him. _Too eager. Too young. Too uptight_.

“Hey, mate, what’s the time?” he signals a random club goer and taps at his wrist. The man takes a moment to process the request before offering Paul a look at the watch around his wrist.

“Ah, danke,” he replies with a smile and a quick nod. Five minutes until showtime, and he shouldn’t prolong this any longer. 

George is the first one to spot him when he makes it backstage, eyebrow quirked and asking him a question that is buried underneath the whooping from the audience as one of the girls on stage finishes her act. 

He looks past the younger bandmate’s shoulder and over to John, who is looking back at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Settled down yet?” he tilts his head a little, and there’s a smile he’s clearly trying to supress and Paul can’t help but chuckle a little, relieved that there’s no anger. Though, there’s a bit of a thrill that strokes at his stomach at the thought of John thinking about him settling down. 

The performer with a sequin dress shuffles past them, murmuring in German under her breath, tassels swinging over her chest. But Paul has his eyes on John. 

-

“I can’t really get talking to these German girls, not properly anyway,” Stuart shrugs miserably as he drums his fingers against the pint sitting in front of him, “Still got a guilty conscious about the war.”

Paul crinkles his nose, “What an excuse.”

Stuart glances at him but seems unbothered, turning back to John across the table, “This place was grown from sewer water, I think.”

John rocks back in his chair, lifting his jaw and squinting at him, “Go home then, miserable sod.”

Paul scratches at his nail so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with John, give him that pleased look he gets whenever he takes a swipe, however tame or intense, at Stuart. It’s losing its charm now, realising how queer it all is to rely on those moments for comfort. 

“There’s fun to be had in a wasteland, though,” Stuart says with a slight smile and tips back a gulp of beer, “Can’t tell me it doesn’t get you down? All this ruin?”

John folds his arms over his chest and Paul definitely keeps his eyes from the way his shirt sleeves tighten around his biceps, “Yeah, it does.”

There’s silence between them, music blasting from up the front of the club with dancers whirling about. And Paul is a gloomy kind of drunk now, feels the heavy sepia haze across his vision and his brain blurring, his own consciousness drifting in and out of focus. He should have just stuck with George, but adhering to John is instinctual now. Can’t fight your nature. And doesn’t he know it. 

“That film was great though, aye?” John perks up a little and nudges Paul’s arm with his.

He keeps his expression unchanged stiff, “Just like being home, it was.”

Not able to tell if John is still looking at him, he decides to play it safe and keep his eyes fixed on the splintering wood of the table edge, silently praying for Stuart to speak up and change the subject. Nothing in John’s tone suggests he knows the kind of state Paul was in during the film, but he doesn’t want to risk it. Doesn’t want him to scan over him with those hooded eyes and uncover the anxiety squirming underneath his skin of indifference. 

“Might catch another when we’ve got the time,” John suggests, his voice so low that Paul instinctively leans closer to hear it.

“Might do,” he nods casually, “Might do.”

“Could go for one of ‘em artsy French ones, aye Stu? Black and white and half-pornographic.”

“He’s not the only one that watches arty films, John,” Paul wishes he could take it back as soon as it slips out like a sigh, because he’s been trying not to be  _ like this _ . 

“Didn’t realise I was sitting next to _Mister Jean-Paul Sartre_ himself,” John scoffs, flicking a peanut shell at him.

“You wouldn’t, would you? Not with your head so far up Stu’s arse,” he tries to inject humour into his tone, but judging by the displeased glare Stuart is giving him, he’s failed miserably. 

It’s a sore spot, all that artsy bohemian stuff that John and Stuart share. Swapping verses of poetry over pints while Paul just watches how John lights up with it all. Films with French titles and old paperbacks with crumbling spines piled on top of each other in their shared flat. Paul isn’t stupid or square, he likes that sort of thing as much as John. But music is where it's at for the two of them. Music and lyrics and chords and guitars and record contracts, an entire world they plan to conquer. Having their own record done in a proper studio. Hearing their songs on the radio. That’s the world he shares with John and he has his whole heart in it. 

“Piss off,” John mutters after a beat. Paul is just grateful he didn’t spark off proper anger. 

An hour goes by, spent curled up half asleep in the corner of the club with his cheek resting in his palm. Eventually, he gives in, slipping out into the street to head back to bed.

John appears at his side, wordlessly and with his collar popped up and hiding his mouth as they walk in time with one another. A softness relaxes him at the sound of their footsteps tapping against the road as the world buzzes around them. The scuffed toes of their boots have Paul’s full attention in some kind of hypnotic way and by the time they reach the cinema, he’s almost been lulled asleep right on his feet. 

The small alcove is thankfully not occupied by Pete and some girl he’s pulled from the bar. It’s quiet, somewhat eerily, if not for the ringing in Paul’s own ears. He had grown accustomed to the hum of neon signs burning into his brain and the constant chatter, voices upon voices. 

He crawls into his bunk, exhaling with relief, “This sleep scheduele they have us on - it’s murder.” 

John hums, and Paul sleepily watches him create a cushion of sorts with various shirts that had been sitting at the end of his bed. 

“Might invest in an actual pillow,” Paul comments, adjusting his own makeshift pillow under his cheek. 

“Could swipe a couch cushion from one of those high-end clubs,” John chuckles, shedding his jacket and laying it over himself as he settles into the mattress, “Put it under me shirt and say I’ve had a big meal as I leave.” 

Paul grins, “Could put one in my pants.” 

“And say what? Got a massive throbber, mate, gotta sort myself out, these are new jeans aye, can’t be making a mess of ‘em!” John laughs, turned over on his side to face Paul. They’re both smiling at each other with sleepy eyes. John looks soft, jacket pulled up to his jaw and his tousled hair all out of place. 

Paul does nothing to stop the giggling that is shaking him from spilling out, so delighted he’s almost dreading the impending slumber his body desperately needs.

“Put it in the back and give yourself a big arse, I say.”

“Already am one, aren’t I?” John quips, and Paul cackles, clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle the volume of it. 

“Must be going mad from no sleep,” he sighs, eyes falling closed for a few seconds before he corrects himself and looks up to John, looking back at him with a smile. And there’s this feeling, like a gravitational pull he’s fighting against, that has him wanting to cross over the distance between them and slip into bed beside him. The fuzziness of his half-lucid state makes everything warmer, and so too the thought of being pressed next to John. To watch each other, the sleepy flutter of eyelashes and the melting of tension, and drift off. 

“We’ll do it. Tomorrow,” John murmurs, the faint ghost of a smile still on his lips, still in the crinkles by his eyes.

He inexplicably fights off sleep to watch John for a minute longer, the noise of voices from outside eventually drowning out entirely when he’s finally pulled under. 

-

“Fuck, it doesn’t fit!” 

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” John snickers, crouching over to obscure the view of any curious clubgoer who might question why there is a young man currently trying to stuff a throw pillow down his pants.

Paul’s stomach is aching from laughter, “You git! I’ll just put it under my shirt.”

“Coward,” John looks over his shoulder and proceeds to grab the second cushion with one hand and unzip his jeans with the other, “Help me out, will you?”

Paul snorts as John turns his back to him, attempting to push the cushion down the back of his pants, “You’ll never get away with this, mate.”

He tugs John’s jacket over the sizable bulge of the pillow sitting in the back of his pants, trying to breathe evenly so his own laughter doesn’t have him dizzy. 

“Do I look like Marylin from behind?” John inquires with a girlish lilt to his voice, shaking his hips. Paul is going red trying suppress his joy. 

“Oh for sure,” he giggles as he stands up, patting his newly acquired beer belly, “What a pair we make.”

John spins around, purposely bumping into Paul and sending into another fit of laughter, “Give me another, I’ll make myself a pair of tits while I’m at it.”

Paul pushes his own cushion up to his chest, cracking them both up until a loud baritone voice cuts through their fun.

“Hör auf damit!” a bartender growls at them, and they turn to each other and smile knowingly.

They take off running before they can even consider whether the bouncer at the door is sufficiently distracted (thankfully he is). They pass by, Paul securing his steal with one hand as they slip past and leave behind the loud chaos. 

“Schnappt sie! Schnappt sie!”

There are footsteps pounding behind him, more unkind yelling, and the pure adrenaline rushing through his body is the only thing that is giving him an edge, because seeing John in front of him holding onto his arse as he runs at full speed is making hard not to laugh and expel the much needed air in his lungs. 

He feels the rough scratch of fingers against his sleeve and he lets out a yell. The hand curls around his elbow and he makes the split-second decision to pull out his cushion from under his shirt and fling it behind him to trip up the furious bouncer. It must work, because by the time they make it down the street and across the road, he realises that the yelling has faded far behind them. John notices too, slowing down to a brisk walk and turning around to let Paul catch up with him.

“Fucking hell, he had me for a moment! He did!” Paul whistles, evening his breathing and smiling so hard his face is aching. 

“You lost your tits, man!” John laughs, poking him in the chest. 

“Had to slow him down,” Paul pats down his shirt, far too elated to be disappointed by the loss. 

John pulls the cushion from behind him and holds it between them, and it reminds Paul of how he’d inspect his loot after swiping a handful of sweets from the counter of a convenience store back home.

“We’ll share it,” John announces, and Paul notices John’s cheeks are now all ruddy from exertion and how the rouge is the same shade of his lips. 

“After you stuffed it down your pants? No thanks,” Paul jokes, smacking it away playfully. 

“Probably has seen worse at that club,” John ponders, holding it up to his nose, “I think there were two girls going at it on stage, that’s what we couldn’t see through the crowd.”

Paul had seen it, though he had felt a strange surge of something hot coursing within him at the thought of John catching sight of it too and deciding to stay for the show. The last thing he needed was another reason to be thinking about John and sex within the same context. 

“We’ll take the cover off of it, then,” Paul redirects the conversation, “Put a shirt over it maybe.”

“Don’t see any suspicious stains,” John squints as he flips over the cushion and scrutinizes the material. Paul silently gestures to the dip in the road they cross over so John doesn’t trip up, and John hums in thanks. 

“Dealt with worse, I guess,” Paul contributes with a smile, nudging John with his elbow, “Over at the Gambier Terrace landfill.”

“Probably,” John admits with a shrug, “I’d give Mimi a ring to go over and clean, but I think I’d hear her screaming from here. Not worth the earthquakes it’d cause.”

Paul chuckles, “She’d show up at the Indra herself.” 

“With her little hat and handbag,” John pulls a mean and twisted expression and does a shrill mock-Mimi, “John Winston Lennon! You’re worse than a pig! I ought to make bacon out of you!"

Paul snickers, “Could go for some bacon right now.”

John smacks him over the back of his head with the cushion, “No teasing. My stomach can’t handle it.”

“Mine is still hurting from laughing,” he smiles at his feet, feeling the strain of his face muscles in that familiar way that only John could create for him. 

The afternoon has dipped into night, the sky going from a collection of light silver clouds to an expanse of dark with pinprick stars shining like dull old coins. The street lights ignite, as do the windows and neon signs of all the bars and clubs and dirty cinemas they pass by. This feels nice, the two of them. Feels natural and right. Paul would never question that. So they continue on, bumping shoulders and joking around like kids.

-

When he makes it back to their room sometime between between four and five drunk and clumsy and still sweat-soaked from their shift, the rest of the boys following close behind, he’s almost ready to completely give into exhaustion and pass out straight away. That is, until he spots something at the head of his bed.

The pillow is sitting there, stripped of its forest green-coloured case and now wrapped up in a white shirt. And he’s standing there, swaying on his feet a little after George knocks half of his body into his back accidentally, absolutely mesmerised. He looks over at John, who is already lying in his bed and watching him with warm amusement. And something Paul can’t quite place, can’t figure it out with his brain being so full of fuzz and warmth and  _ JohnJohnJohn _ .  _ He did that for me _ . 

When his head falls onto his new pillow, everything around him dissolves into tenderness. It’s John’s shirt, and his heart swells. That scent tinged with the smell of beer and smoke, it’s John. He opens his eyes, acknowledges him with a tired smile. The other boy just nods, returning the look before he rolls over. But Paul can’t fathom looking away. So he watches the sweat-damp hair curling at the back of his neck, the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his blanket falls over his figure. And once again he’s overwhelmed with want. He rests a hand flat over the fabric of the shirt in front of his eyes, everything is blissful and horribly doomed all at once. 

-

He can’t go too long without these thoughts rising to the surface. Thoughts about John. He figures that at first he just noticed little things. Like the angles of his face, the sweetness in his laugh, the smallest quirk of his lips as he delivers a joke. And that was alright. Just to notice these things and like them. But now there’s an intensity to everything he’s thinking and feeling. It’s not just Hamburg immorality twisting his mind up, because he knows that it’s always been there. He realises this with a begrudging acceptance. Why else would he have been so captivated by John’s moaning in that cinema while Dot was practically in his lap? Why else would he have felt burning jealousy every time he stepped foot into the Gambier Terrace flat, seeing John so captivated by someone? Captivated by another male.

He’s woken up before the other lads, lying on his back and staring at the parts of the mattress above his head that sag through the gaps of the metal panels. They found out last night they’re to play at the Kaiserkeller club, a step up from the crumbling Indra but still the same long hours for the same shit pay. It’s at this point he wants to run back home, his heart bruised black and blue. He’s terrified. The charm has worn off too fast, his thoughts about John are getting too much and he’s a fucking wreck. He had woken up earlier, lumbered to the bathroom and had looked at himself in the mirror as old German sailors pissed in the urinals behind him. He looked so faint and unlike himself. A splash of cold water over his face doesn’t make much difference these days, not when his eyes are so dark they seem to absorb the light around them, and his reflection becomes more of an optical illusion than an image of himself to rely on. 

He thinks about the pillow his head is resting on, John’s scent still there if he presses his nose into the fabric and concentrates, but it’s stupid to care that much about it. Not when John is right there. And that’s the strangest thing in all of this, John can be right beside him, but it’s not enough. He wants John to need the two of them, just like he needs them. It’s a different kind of want than he first thought it was. It’s something that has him gripped by the heart, and it’s seeped into every corner of his brain. It’s not all horrible, is also a problem. In fact, it’s really bloody brilliant in those fragments of his time with John, and without, where the guilt doesn’t have to be the sour aftertaste that follows indulgence. He’s still fascinated by John, still feels like he’s missing out and he wants whatever it is. 

And now he knows what it is and he wishes he didn’t. 

The wank he has in the bathroom stall that morning is just about as pathetic as he’s ever allowed himself to be. It feels filthy, to have his back pressed to the wall and his hand down his pants, thinking about the careful way John must have tucked the pillow into his shirt, placing it on Paul’s bed and watching his reaction carefully before he let himself fall asleep. It makes sense in some abstract way, but nothing he could put into words to calm himself down with. He’s bent for John, he can’t ignore it when it’s got him in this state. It has him warm and soft and happy. It also has him terrified and sweating in a grimey bathroom, alone. 

-

Days pass by, dragging along slow and losing meaning entirely because time doesn’t really make much sense anymore now that they operate at strange hours. They adjust, because they have to. And it isn’t all miserable and tiring. They make friends with the older barmaids, the patrons that tell them they like their music. Patrons including a beautiful pair wearing all black. Astrid and Klaus are enchanted by them, and so they sweep them up into their orbit and build a bridge between the dirty leather rock and roll and the calm enigmatic art world. 

They keep working like dogs, but there is comfort in the fact that he can hear them getting better all the time. There is a sharpness to how they play, and it isn’t any wonder that they are attracting a crowd every time they hop on stage. The pride he takes in their ability can outweigh the burdens they have to endure for now.

“She wants to take my photograph, alone,” Stuart beams, combing back his quiff with his fingers, “Think something might happen between us.”

“Fuckin’ dog,” John comments, but seems to be somewhat pleased for his mate.The band is gathered backstage and waiting for their cue to start another shift, huddled in close enough that Paul can see the way John is formulating jokes about the bassist just from the way his lips curls up in a barely-there smile and how his eyes dart across his face curiously. 

"She’s brilliant, though, isn’t she?” Stuart thumbs at strings of his bass, sounding a little soft.

“Certainly has you seeing stars,” George chuckles, “You really think she’d leave Klaus for you?” 

Stuart purses his lips, shrugging a little, “Doesn’t seem to be much affection between them.”

Paul is half-expecting John to crack a joke but he stays quiet, now just thoughtfully staring down at the ground between their feet. So he steps in. 

“How do you figure that?” he questions, passing a glance back to John to see if he’s paying attention to him. 

“Just can tell,” Stuart replies, plucking his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and sliding them onto his nose. 

“Stuart knows about romance,” John suddenly perks up with a teasing smirk, “Got all the birds and fairies alike swooning for ‘im.”

The bassist sighs wearily, but there’s a smile stretched over his lips, “Yer just jealous they didn’t go after you.”

John presses his palm over his heart and puts on a camp voice as he plays up lovestruck admirer, “Ooh, Stu-hart! You are the most beautiful boy in all of Hamburg! Ooh!”

“Who’s they?” Pete asks, and it might be the first thing he’s said all night. 

“Astrid took us to a queer jazz bar,” Stuart says, affection still colouring his tone.

Paul feels a jolt of nervous tension crack like thunder, and it almost plays across his face. He turns to John, who seems dead set on continuing to tease Stuart with mock admiration, pawing at his jacket sleeve and cooing.

“When was this?” his voice barely filters through the knot in his throat. 

“Last night,” Stuart replies, batting John’s hand away with a chuckle, “They were nice, really funny people down there.”

“You were feeling a bit funny down there, I’ll say,” John mocks his bandmate further, nudging Stuart’s hip with his own. Paul feels nauseous and hot all over now, his neck radiating heat that he’s almost certain everyone else can feel. He bites down on his lips and takes a cautious step back, nervously fingering the steel strings of his guitar. 

“Fuck off, will you?” Stuart laughs lightly, holding up a fist. 

“You weren’t nervous being there?” George inquires, rocking back and forth on his heels. The motion has Paul wrestling with an entirely new queasiness. Something awful and feverish needling around his neck, down his spine. He wants to know everything and nothing all at once.

“They’re nice, all artists and poets,” Stuart replies with the same ease he’d answer a question about the weather with. All the while Paul feels his jaw clamped shut with the tense feeling of...what? Jealousy. Fear. The thought of Stuart and John in that sort of environment, the purposeful withholding of their whereabouts from Paul until now, just as the audience cheers and the lights turn all the way back to a blinding white. He feels himself being pushed out onto the stage by Pete, his feet clumsily navigating the floorboards as he walks over to the microphone. His stomach is held so tight he’s in a kind of pain, doesn’t know how he will sing through it. 

“Ladies and genitals, good to be with you tonight, once again.”

Paul watches John’s lips almost pressed to the mic as he speaks, can’t look anywhere else.

“We’d like to dedicate this first number to the Catholic church. This is Maggie Mae.”

Despite everything, he smiles. He smiles because John glances over at him and expects him to react. He smiles because he can’t let this feeling overcome him and show, like light bleeding through the cracks in armour. 

Stuart’s bassline drums up his throat, as sour as bile, while John’s guitar chords claw at his skull. If he looks over at Stuart, he’ll shatter. Whether it would be with rage or utter grief, he can’t predict. He’ll either tumble into Stuart with charged violence or fall to his knees and cry out in anguish. So he holds himself stiff and steady, refraining from emoting at all. He angles himself so he won’t even catch a glimpse of Stuart, and keeps his glances to John at a painful minimum. Astrid and Klaus are sitting at a table near the stage, clad in black and glowing pale and mystical as they smile and tap their fingers against the table surface. 

It was clear from the start that she fancied Stuart the best, and that didn’t bother him so much. When she took their picture at the fairground, it didn’t bother him at all. They posed by the battered up vehicles and drew themselves further into their jackets to retain warmth as the damp cold seeped through their clothes. She had sat John down and taken his photo, instructing Stuart to lurk behind him. And he had wondered, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes darting between the three of them, what it was she saw in the two of them to have them positioned like that. And when she motioned him over to take John’s place, and encouraged Stuart to stay where he was - what did that mean? And now, standing up on stage knowing where she took those two last night, all that pondering has reignited feverishly. 

He calculates how he will approach this. The fierce need to probe and question further won’t die down, but would he risk the danger that comes with asking those questions? It leaves him grinding his teeth as a sickly kind of tightness pulls up his shoulders and curls his fingers. He can’t express it, can’t dislodge the pressure because it feels like that’s all he is beneath his skin. He tries to scream it out into the microphone, strum the guitar strings harshly enough to tear the skin at his fingertips. It festers, he can’t ignore it. Can’t bury it because he can’t dig any further, he’s hit the very end of his capacity to hide from himself.

-

The alleyway is quiet enough, cold enough, lonely enough to stand in and smoke and feel somewhat comforted. The cigarette sitting between his lips sizzles away and his sweat-damp skin is cooling in a way that has him shiver whenever the wind picks up. He’s been out here, just thinking, for about half an hour. He’s almost in a trance of some sort, the way he just stares out ahead of him. Everything flying too fast through his head to catch onto. It’s the way he prefers it to be for now, even if he knows it will burst eventually. So when the door swings open, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Excuse me, good sir, I’m looking fresh air, have you seen it anywhere?” John speaks with an exaggerated posh accent as he kicks the door behind him so that it snaps shut. 

“Not since Liverpool,” Paul half smiles, bowing his head and watches the grainy ash fall from the tip of his smoke, “If you’d even call that fresh air.”

“I’d settle for a light breeze,” John steps towards him, leaning back on the wall next to him with his chin tilted upwards. The silver moonlight plays over his face, the shadows of exhaustion and starvation cutting through. He still looks stunning, that’s the thing. Paul looks away, puffing out smoke and flicking ash onto the slick pavement at his feet.

“Thought we might go and see another english film tomorrow,” John extends a hand over, and Paul instinctively fishes a cigarette and his lighter from his pocket.

“Would be good, starting to miss those films from back home,” he sighs, watching the honey tones of the flame at the end of his smoke illuminate John’s profile. Noting the pinch of his lips and the angle of his jaw with careful curiosity. John catches his eyes and blinks at him, and Paul can’t do anything but turn away quickly. Like a schoolboy with a crush.

“Stu’s going to be licking at Astrid’s boots, might as well do something ourselves.”

Paul just lets the back of his head gently thud and rest on the wall behind him, “So you’re settling for me? Gee, way to make a lad feel special, Johnny.”

“Oh, come on baby, don’t be like that,” John mocks and chuckles, “You’re still the rotten apple of my eye.”

Paul bites back a smile, “ _ You’re _ rotten.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I? With you,” the silence that follows is overflowing with Paul’s own miserable fondness. His fingers start to sting with the burn of his dying ciggie, and he lets it fall and stamps it out quickly.

“You’d follow him, though, wouldn’t you?” Paul pulls back the toe of his boot, not able to make out where his squashed cigarette is amongst the dark. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ll be on about him on your deathbed, won’t you?” John groans, and Paul can’t make himself look back. Keeps his eyes on his shoes, poking at the gravel just to hear the scrape and crunch of it. 

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbles in defence.

“ _ He followed us _ ,” John mutters, blowing smoke up to the sky, “You forget that bit.”

The metallic glow of the moon settles soft in John’s hair, granting a heavenly aura around his face. Paul flinches away, teeth digging into the flesh of his bottom lip. 

“I wasn’t-”

“Yeah, alright.”

He listens to John inhale and exhale, the muffled sounds from inside the club and the chatter out on the streets. Scrambling for something to say, but needing to bite his tongue and keep from making another mistake. Because he’s right. The two of them sat Stuart down and persuaded him to buy the bass. To leave behind his art, his prodigy status at art school and all that was sensible to follow them to Hamburg. 

“If Astrid and Klaus head out to another club tomorrow night, you’ll come along, yeah?” John asks all of a sudden, and Paul feels vulnerable without something to do with his hands besides scratch at the peeling skin next to his nails from his rough playing. 

“Yeah. Decent liquor would be a nice change,” Paul’s cheeks flush, “I mean… y’know, they have good taste and all that.”

He had tried to map out the club they had gone to in his mind earlier. Tried to imagine what sort of place Astrid would frequent.  _ If she was even there _ . Paranoia writhes about manically in his head, extending its tentacles around his throat and giving his voice an embarrassing waver. 

Another pause.

“Real characters at that bar last night,” John says, and each word seemingly takes an eternity for him to say.

“Yeah?” Paul hums with feigned detachment, “Sounds like they liked Stu.”

John laughs softly, accidentally knocking his shoulder into Paul’s as he shifts his posture, “He was right at home there.”

Paul swallows hard, “All exis-like? Like Astrid and Klaus?”

“Yeah, mostly. Guys wearing blouses and chicks with shirts and ties.”

Paul closes his eyes for a moment, “Did you… I mean, it was alright?”

The buzz between them is almost unbearable, Paul can’t look at him.

“Yeah,” John clears his throat, “Didn’t feel so strange... after a while.”

“Like Hamburg,” Paul muses, just to stray from the topic for a moment, just to take a breath. 

“You’re dying to make a crack about it, aren’t ye?” John says, voice low. 

Paul’s stomach curls, “No- Well, not right now. Gotta work on my material first.”

“Perfectionist,” John snorts, casting his cigarette onto the ground by their feet, “I scared ye, didn’t I?”

Shame flares and bites at the backs of his eyes, he has to shut out John from his peripheral vision by turning away.

“Scared me?” he breathes. _ You terrify me _ . _ This terrifies me. _

“Telling you to back off from Stu. Maybe scared isn’t the right word… Got you thinking. You don’t have to fight him, you know, it’s not a fight.”

Paul exhales in half-relief, moving away from  _ that  _ topic, “I wasn’t fighting him. I just care about the band.”

“He’s part of it,” John huffs, “Don’t want to argue about it. Don’t want  _ you two _ arguing.”

Paul nods solemnly, “I know. I’m just tired and starving and grumpy.”

“Like a baby,” he can see John smiling just by hearing his tone, “Need to latch onto a tit and you’ll be set.”

Paul cracks up, even if there is an undercurrent of anxiety scraping against his laughter, “Sounds great.”

“Might not find them where Astrid takes us,” John jokes, but his voice is softer, “If you really want to go.”

“I do,” Paul speaks up, a tad too quickly, “I do. I like them - Astrid and Klaus, ye know. We’ll get them to do our record cover.”

“Our fucking record. Seems like it’ll never happen,” John is shifting again, this time stepping forward and turning to face Paul, who immediately jumps in to reassure him.

“I know, but that’s just going to be how it is for now. But y’know, we always said that we’d drag ourselves through shit to get to the top. Hey? We’ll make it. Don’t waste time worrying about it, ‘cause it’ll happen for us.” 

John half smiles, and tilts his head to the side as he eyes the ground. He’d look shy if Paul knew he wasn’t. Or maybe he is? Those gaps in his familiarity with John burn too brightly, make it hard to feel secure in what he does know. Those gaps that Stuart could fill out with ease, perhaps. He winces.  _ Stop that _ .  _ Don’t want you two arguing. _

John nods thoughtfully, looking up to meet his eye, “I know.”

Paul can’t stop himself before his eyes dart down to John’s mouth and back up to his eyes. Their proximity is making his heart leap wildly, and he wants so badly to surge forward and know that John will catch him. Know that John would kiss him and settle all the dust that has been whirring around his head since he met the boy at the church fete. 

“Well then,” his breathe escapes him, watching John watch him, “No need to worry, is there?”

John fights a smile, Paul can see it play out on his face, “Yeah, Paul. No need to worry.”

Paul can’t keep the giggle from bubbling up, a mixture of relief and shame. Maybe John is engaging in double-meaning talk, he doesn’t care to be sure of it. Right now, all he cares about is staying right here. It feels precious, right now, underneath the moon and tucked away in the shadows. 

All that dazzling bravery, the wicked charm and bright energy - all that is John - it melts and molds into something so beautiful when they look each other in the eyes. Nothing needs to be said, just communicated with a look. And he sees John, looking cool and contemplative and feels a warmth blooming. Like maybe they’re thinking the same thing. Maybe if he just edged forward, just a little, maybe he’d mirror that too. Amongst the murky puddles of rainwater, the smokey haze of the night, the dreary gurgling of the pipes along the wall - he knows it’s not just invisible string that ties their souls together. It’s more than that. They are puzzle pieces, slotting into place. Electricity buzzing right through to the tips of his fingers, down to the heels of his boots. John is so close…

Something flickers across John’s face, and suddenly he’s heading for the door, calling after Paul over his shoulder. He feels as though his feet have sunk into the wet pavement, curling around his calves and holding him there - feels as though he’s been suspended in mid-air. 

John’s eyes swimming with affection. That’s how it seemed. For a dreamy moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of it. Thought he could see it all reflected back towards him - and he wanted to drown in it. 

“Can’t hold this door open forever, you know,” John says, slicing through his daze. He turns around to look at John’s silhouette, an opaque shape against the merigold light spilling out from the opened door. And Paul knows when his feet pick up to follow John’s shadow that this coiled up desire will never leave him. It’s as much a part of him as John is.   
  



	2. With My Pleading Call

It feels as though these last few days in Hamburg have been like bath water gone cold, soapy suds now dissolved into unstirred water. John is distant in a way Paul can’t determine if he’s imagining or not. He’ll see John drinking alone or stumbling blindly into their room hours after the rest of them have crashed and the silence will gnaw at him. So the days curl back into themselves, routine rolling on. It’s more guitar strings leaving indentations in their fingertips, more aching feet swelling in their shoes, more sweat soaked shirts after chaotic shifts and more surges of arousal and longing - so strong it renders him useless. Sometimes he thinks he’s getting better at not surrendering to it and letting it get the better of him. And then it’s all knocked out from underneath when he realises he’s just settled in what he feels. That his mind could wander anywhere for any amount of time, but John would still be at home, nestled in the shadowed parts of his heart.

-

The photographs Astrid took of them at the fairground look incredible, glossy and clear enough to imagine as little opened windows to another world entirely. He tells her this, and it might be the first time he’s ever allowed himself to be truly enthused and not so awkward around her. Maybe he feels guilty about not trying hard enough at the start to get to know her, too off-put by how she gravitated so easily to the other boys, leaving him and Pete to make the effort. And maybe he’s not used to that, exactly. With girls back home, it’s easy enough to charm and interact with them. Astrid shouldn’t be different, just because she’s been enamoured with Stuart from the start. Maybe he’s just still a little spooked by her. She has the all-knowing air of a mother figure, eyes seeming to cut straight through any facade you might by shielding yourself with. 

She gives him a soft smile, doe eyes glimmering in the low light of her mother’s kitchen, passing him a cup of tea. John and George are sharing a plate of biscuits between them at the kitchen table, admiring the photos, careful not to spill crumbs onto the precious prints. 

“They really are fab, Astrid,” he tells her earnestly for what must be the tenth time, “You made us look really great.”

“God knows we need the help,” George laughs as he gingerly takes the tea that Astrid passes him and smiles sweetly as she pats his shoulder.

“You are handsome boys,” she reassures them, her English is stilted and heavy on her tongue - but all the more reason to lean in close when she speaks, as they already do. 

“She’s as blind as I am,” John huffs with a grin and Paul’s pulse flutters as he watches his long slender fingers flip through the prints. 

Stuart enters the room, hair damp from the shower he’s just had and looking brighter, “I’ve missed being clean.”

“I’m sure your girlfriend appreciates it,” John says, and Stuart beams as he looks over at Astrid. 

It wasn’t really a shock to see them kissing under the low lights at the back of the club, but it had Paul feeling a little blue. He missed being able to kiss like that. Not so much in a frenzied erotic way, but in that soft intimate way that only real lovers could. It had him thinking about those nights where he’d be all lax and loose from sleepy drunkenness and John would be right there, within his reach. How badly he wanted to just slip in beside him and kiss him like that - at first because it would lead somewhere and then sometimes just because. To tilt his chin up with his fingers like Stuart would do to Astrid, to mould their figures together and lose track of who was who. He feels the heaviness of guilt weigh him down at the thought of it. 

He had a letter to Dot in his pocket, a pristine account of his work and play, a reasonable amount of sorrowful ‘miss you’s and a variety of dull questions about life back at home. It felt odd to write it, given the state he’s been in since he got here. He’d been so unnerved by it, putting pen to paper and outlining all the lies he half-wished were truths. Maybe that’s why he had encouraged John to write to Cyn, offering to pay postage. He needed to clean messes, to fix things up and make them presentable and shiny and acceptable. Standing in Astrid’s shower and scrubbing his skin red and raw hadn’t been enough, scouring at his grimey scalp like he could shed all of this anxiety like snakeskin. 

“We should post our letters,” he suggests as they leave Astrid’s home, descending the stairs as the happy couple waves them off. 

“Right, yeah. Don’t want them worrying,” John pulls out a slightly crumpled envelope from his jacket, and Paul scoffs.

“You can’t send it in that state,” Paul shakes his head, smiling, “She’s been waiting for her boyfriend to write her and that’s what she gets?” 

John peers at him curiously, “This one is for Mimi. Cyn’s is back at the club, left it on me bed so I wouldn’t ruin it. Wanted to draw something on it before I sent it, anyway.”

Paul’s face falls a little, “Oh.”

“You think I’m that useless, eh?” John takes a half-hearted swipe at Paul’s arm, “You just worry about yer own bird.”

“Do you think I should send my Dad a letter?” Paul wonders aloud as they walk, noting the streams of sunshine falling from above, warming the back of their heads. He had missed the sun. 

“Tell him you’re going to church and eating three meals a day,” George titters, “Make him feel better about it.”

Paul groans, “Maybe I’ll put it off for another day. Don’t feel-”

“Like lying _ again _?” John finishes for him, and Paul feels his face go hot. He shoots him a half-amused, half-grimace but melts into a chuckle because John is pulling a face at him.

“Who is Paul lying to?” George queries, teasing.

“No one-” 

“He’s telling Dot how much he misses her, that he’s been so many days celibate-”

“I do miss her,” Paul clips back, feeling shame bloom in the pit of his chest. It’s true, though, he does miss Dot and everything that once was back home. He wishes he could go back to the start, to blind himself to everything now that had simmered underneath for so long, now brought to the surface.

John doesn’t respond to him, just directs his eyes off to the side of the road and Paul wonders (always wonders) what he’s thinking. 

-

He’s taken by surprise when John invites him that night to come with him and the shiny new couple to another bar. The first question that flashes in his mind, the question he won’t ask, is if it is _ that bar _that he had gone to the other night. It dangles above his head, teasing and ringing in his ears as he gets dressed, as he combs his hair, as he makes the timid journey to the front of the club to wait for a taxi to take the four of them away. 

He’s squished in between Stuart and John in the back seat, knees pulled up to make room. He keeps his body tight and tense so he doesn’t shift that much as the taxi curves around street corners. But he can still feel the warm press of John’s body at his side. Can see how his hands rest over his thighs and his stomach goes tight at how bloody anxious he feels now. It really shouldn’t matter this much, but he supposes there isn’t much point in lamenting about that. He’ll always care too much. When it comes to John, when it comes to the sort of place they’re going. The rumbling of the vehicle makes him feel slightly ill, though, and he just bites down on the inside of his cheek and keeps himself drawn in and tense. Whenever John looks at him, he can feel it, and he has to resist the force that always has him mirroring John’s movements. 

When they finally pour out of the doors of the car and into the street, it is an odd mixture of relief and more fear. The street itself is relatively quiet, the air relatively still. He hears piano keys twinkling from the windows of the bar across the street, ears pricking up at how familiar the tune is. He can’t quite make it out though, mind too busy to really concentrate. 

“Hey now, pup, come along,” John whistles and waves his hand in front of his eyes, snapping his attention back to where it should be. John laughs at his lost look, and just gestures him along to follow Astrid and Stuart down the street to a rather gritty looking concrete brick of a building with boarded over windows. Stuart opens the gate, nodding at an obscenely muscular figure smoking by the rickety gate, and allows the rest of group to walk down the steps and up to a thick door.

Another muscular man with a shaved head and yellowed teeth greets them, exchanging polite back and forth with Astrid in german too rapid for Paul to catch. He has a lit cigarette smoking between two thick fingers, and an inscrutable tattoo up the length of his forearm. He opens the door for them, and they stream into a dimly lit narrow hallway. At the end of the walk is a silky mauve curtain that obstructs his view of inside the bar, and all he can think about is how suffocatingly low the ceiling is, and how John’s figure looms in his peripheral vision. Stuart parts the curtain from the center in a breezy, effortless motion. Paul doesn’t look at John, straining to keep his eyes as detached and void of any real emotion. Still, he can feel eyes piercing through his armour, stepping into the bar with a careful sweep of his gaze over the setup. The walls are brick painted over in black, dim eggshell light emitted from light fixtures above and red cellophane taped over the lights on the floor. There are chairs and tables, booths closer to the end of the bar where people are dancing. And the figures that roam about and lounge with drinks in their hands are vague at first, in Paul’s haste to take everything in and digest it quickly enough to seem unbothered. The patrons are diverse, from immaculately groomed men wearing fitted clothes to androgynous figures wearing odd combinations of modern and old fashioned pieces. The noise is fuzzy in Paul’s ears, casual chatter and relaxed jazz and clinking glasses. At this point he knows John is looking at him, and he dares to glance back and give him a somewhat-relaxed smile. 

They sit themselves at a table and Paul carefully observes the men slow dancing on the cherry-wood floor, heeled boots clicking softly as they sway, holding onto each other with serene expressions. His gut swoops at the thought of he and John doing just that, being soft and relaxed and unguarded. Though it looks so odd. So foreign to what he knows. 

Astrid embraces a man wearing a white silk shirt that clings to his slender frame, and exchanges pleasantries in german. When she turns around to introduce the two parties, Paul has to swallow his pride and look the man in the eye. His features are soft like Paul’s, but he is elegant in all the ways Paul knows not to be. The grand gestures he makes with his hands when he talks, how his hip juts out when he stands and how he speaks - like a camp theatre actor. Men like that hide in the shadows of Liverpool, so he’s been told. And now here they are, all gathered and unabashedly themselves and _ different _. 

“This is Volker,” Astrid says, giving the man a gentle squeeze on the arm, “You know John and Stuart. This is their friend, Paul.”

“You play rock and roll music also?” Volker asks Paul, his eyes are just grey rings around blown out pupils. 

“Yeah, with the band,” Paul answers, gesturing towards John beside him as he reaches over the table to shake Volker’s hand. 

“That is wonderful,” Volker enthuses, clasping his hands together under his chin. It’s like he emerged from the imagination of the boys that used to tease Paul so cruelly about his femine features, and Paul can only painfully ruminate over how much malice this man has been plagued with for his natural mannerisms all his life. This may be one of the few pockets of Hamburg where he can be like this. 

“Volker is a fashion designer and a poet,” Astrid informs Paul, “A good friend.”

Paul realises his knee is bouncing anxiously, and quickly stills himself. 

John leans closer to him, mouth barely an inch from his cheek, and murmurs, “You nervous about all this?”

Paul retracts his body back, shivering a little, “No, not really. Must be the prellies I took.” 

It’s a lie, because he’s relatively unintoxicated, but he doesn’t want to appear square or rude. Especially when John seems so at ease in this environment. 

“You want a drink?” John asks, his voice still low under the wailing of the saxophone making it so Paul has to lean back in closer. The ends of his hair brush against John’s temple, and the proximity is so dizzying without the nausea to discourage him from continuing to linger so close. 

“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” Paul affirms, the two of them take orders from the rest of the table and head towards the bar, sliding in between two pairs of men at the stools lining the counter. 

“Come here often?” John mimics an American drawl and leans an elbow on the bar.

A smile flickers across his lips but falls victim to his own nerves when the bartender asks them for their order, and he’s snapped back into the reality of the situation again. He takes note of the bookshelf tucked in the corner, neatly arranged books and paperbacks - most likely the sort of literature he’d never be able to access at the bookstores back home. There is a fleeting temptation to tuck one of the books under his arm and take it back to the club to read - to comb through the pages for answers to all the questions that rattle him. But he wouldn’t steal, he lowers his eyes, and he certainly wouldn’t ever risk getting caught.

“Little different from the Kaiser,” he comments just for the sake of saying something, sitting himself up on a barstool. John does the same and sheds his jacket, throwing it over the bar next to his arm. Paul, suddenly aware of the humidity trapped between the layers of his clothes, follows suit. 

“Reckon Volker had his eyes on Stu that other night ‘til he saw how cozy he and Astrid were,” John looks over his shoulder and observes the small clusters of people sitting at the tables behind them. 

There is a kind of timidness in the way Paul replies, “Didn’t even bother with you?”

“Nah,” John screws up his face for effect and breaks into a soft laugh, “Good thing I’m not bent, I’d be all on me own.”

Paul’s mind stutters over a response, his mouth hanging slightly agape with no words spilling out to save him. _ You wouldn’t be alone. _

“Plenty of fish in the sea,” he settles on, just because the silence has stretched out awkwardly long and John’s attention has turned back to the bartender. 

“Useless when you’re a red-blooded mammal,” John counters, eyes drifting up to the shelves of liquor bottles and a random assortment of vintage vases and abstract sculptures. 

“Suppose you’ve got a point there,” Paul inspects his fingernails, catching sight of John’s heel jumping up and down. If he’s actually nervous, he’s trying to hide it. He squints as he stares, seemingly everywhere expect back at Paul, and his thin lips remain in perfect straight line. 

“You wouldn’t have much trouble,” John states like a fact, still not looking at him. 

“Why is that?” he regrets asking but he knows regardless of whether he helps set up a joke for John he’ll still make it. John shrugs, the collar of his shirt is crooked (it agitates Paul, fingers itching to reach out and correct it) and flat - exposing his collarbone. 

Paul blinks away the enticement occupying his thoughts, “Ye can’t just not follow through. Thought you had a gag ready.”

“I wasn’t joking,” John replies, and then he’s looking back at Paul. It’s like a kick to the stomach, seeing the warmth and the glossiness of his eyes in this light. Hearing those words without twisted humour to make him feel self conscious or attacked.

“Maybe I’d take pity on you, then,” Paul blurts, the ache of regret hitting him hard.

John smirks, “I don’t want _ pity _.” 

Arousal pools where common sense should inhabit and Paul licks over his teeth and angles his chin up, “What _ do _you want?”

The bartender slides over five tall glasses and murmurs something that they both miss. The whiplash that crossing from one moment to the next temporarily incapacitates him, his vision fixed on John as he scoops up the drinks to carry back to the table. He springs back into lucidity and collects the leftovers to follow closely behind as they navigate the clusters of people to get back to their table. He watches John’s footsteps, the muscles in his back under his shirt when he has to angle his body to pass by groups of people. 

Paul makes a misstep and grazes roughly against a lady dressed in a tailored suit with a maroon bow tie. She smiles kindly enough at him when he apologizes, but some of the alcohol had splashed over his hand, sprinkling her sleeve. Her hair is dark and cropped short, freckled face making her look younger than she probably is. Her arm is looped around the shoulders of another woman wearing similarly masculine clothes, grey suspenders over black button up shirt, long hair pinned back and slicked into place with oil. And it’s strange, he had seen women kissing each other on stage in the seedy clubs in the Reeperbahn when they first arrived in Hamburg, but that was just performing. These women had the casual intimacy of a couple, leaning into each other’s side, faint lipstick kisses staining the underside of their jaws. He hurries along, not knowing what the flurry of emotion he’s experiencing is trying to tell him. 

“Danke,” Volker smiles, fingertips accidentally pressing over Paul’s as he passes over his drink, and he just hopes that the blushing sensation warming his cheeks doesn’t actually show. 

“Volker knows where I can get paints cheaper,” Stuart informs John as they slip back into their chairs, “I can go over to Astrid’s and work in my time off.”

“Yeah? That’s fab,” John replies, knee knocking into Paul’s as he shifts over. 

John’s fingers curl around his glass and Paul observes with almost overwhelming fascination for reasons he’d rather not pinpoint right here. His own drink is bitter and bites at the back of his throat, but the aftertaste is kind of sweet and he settles into the rhythm of it soon enough. The casual chat around the table mostly consists of talk about Astrid and Volker’s work, and Paul’s mind keeps straying off course and has him peeking over at the patrons interacting with each other. 

A man with loose curls and a frilled shirt approaches and quietly requests a dance with Volker, who accepts with a pleased hum and follows him to the dancefloor. Astrid and Stuart venture off to dance soon after, leaving John and Paul with a table of half-consumed drinks.The impulse to ask John, jokingly, for a dance tips dangerously close to something he seriously considers doing. He sucks down the rest of his drink, listening to John lament over the lost lyrics to Roll Over Beethoven that he had only just found that morning, sandwiched between the mattress and the wall. Maybe he should care more about this, but his thoughts are muddled and mostly situated in the deeply embarrassing fantasy of dancing with John.

Stuart and Astrid are kissing as they sway, Volker and his partner are whispering and giggling as they half-waltz slowly up and down the space of the dance floor. Seconds seem to expand into painfully long minutes and John has stopped talking, drinking out of Stuart’s glass. Paul keeps glancing at the couples around the bar, fidgeting with his fingers under the table. 

“Need another drink?” John asks and Paul leaps on the opportunity, following close behind as they journey back to the bar. 

“Might try to sneak in a Carl Perkins record,” John mutters, tapping at the counter and passing over a palmful of coins for the bartender to collect.

“Yeah, this places needs it,” Paul adds, trying to be subtle when he admires John’s profile. 

“Still, something to be said for slow dance numbers,” John half smiles and nods towards the dance floor where Astrid and Stuart are now kissing with heated affection. But Paul’s eyes travel beyond the young couple to Volker and his companion, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. They kiss, somewhere in between chaste and lovingly. Conflicting emotions crash over each other at the sight, but he can feel his lips buzzing with the ghost of a kiss and he knows its longing he’s feeling most of all. Shame like dead weight presses on his gut, because he’s looking at something unnatural. And as much as he wants to flinch away as though he is truly scandalised, he remains staring. Arousal kindling and his heart thumping in a way he can feel all over. It pierces through the cold of his disgust, of everything he was taught and warned about growing up. 

He forces himself to turns away and drink some more. The droopy buzz of the alcohol is starting to warm him, a dull sleepiness pooling over his eyes. 

His jaw is slack and his words are mostly unfiltered when he mumbles into the lip of his glass, “Ask someone to dance, then.”

John scoffs, “Don’t think these birds are interested, mate.”

Paul doesn’t relent, “Ask a bloke.”

Some twinges sharply when he says it, because the thought of John dancing with another man makes him feel ill. If John possessed even a fraction of the lustful torment Paul is battling and acted on those impulses with another man, Paul would splinter and collapse under the devastation. John not wanting him half as much as he wants him. Not needing him, for music, for anything - that would be the harshest blow to the shaky stability he has cultivated out of fearful necessity. 

“Can’t dance with a bloke,” John plants his glass down with a thud, “But by all means, Pauline, you go ahead.”

Paul thumbs at the condensation collecting along the side of the glass, “Wouldn’t want to leave you on your own, Johnny.”

Suddenly the music seems louder, ruby lights slanting in fat streams across the bar seem dimmer and Paul can see the nervousness John is holding in his jaw. All he can think about for a blurry amount of time is settling his hand down on John’s thigh to still his restlessness. Pressing into the soft flesh with his fingertips and holding him down, not letting him go. John’s hand sliding over his, the spiking of his heartbeat...

“Well,” John starts, but doesn’t follow through, leaving Paul holding his breath. 

“Well?” Paul breathes out slowly. John raises his brow, and Paul crumbles under his stare.

“Guess neither of us are going to dance,” he sucks on his bottom lip, turning his body so he’s facing Paul straight on. Paul’s pulse points hammer, toes curling from the tension building and building. There’s something coy in the undercurrent of John’s words, and Paul knows it can’t just be his imagination. Each breath he’s taking is shallow and his mind is swimming in the cherry light splashed across the ceiling. He wants to reach out, take the step John isn’t going to make. The ebb and flow of the two of them, this is how it always is. He’s got to give.

“One way to solve that,” Paul murmurs as playfully as he can through the strain of nerves, “Fancy a dance?”

John looks at him, but not startled or horrified. It’s something crossed between wicked amusement and slight surprise. 

“Can’t say no to that, can I?” John scratches at his chin, pushing himself off of the barstool. They walk side by side towards the dancing couples, the music swelling and piano slightly shrill in Paul’s ears. Heat trickling down his arms and legs, swirling behind his ribs and seeping through the gaps. They turn on their heels to face each other, but neither of them are giggling like they should be. Because they are just joking around, just doing this for a laugh. But no one is laughing. 

John rubs the back of his neck, chuckling, “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

Paul’s heart leaps to its own defence, “Not really.”

He reaches out to rest his palms on John’s shoulders, the gap between their chests large enough that he hardly has to bend his elbows. John snickers and places his hands around Paul’s waist, and hot-blooded stiffness overtakes him. 

“I’m not a bird,” he bursts with accidental volume, “Watch your hands, there.”

John tilts his head with a challenging expression, “One of us has to be.”

Paul blinks, stung by the words and he’s not even sure why. The whispers of regret begin to warm his face, but he can’t move his feet, let alone his hands, just watching John’s discomfort with helpless shock. 

“That’s not how this thing works,” he protests, voice crackling on the last syllable, “That’s the point, innit? Neither of us are…” 

Something stormy darkens John’s eyes, all jest and fun fading away, swirling around the drain and Paul has to either scramble to save the scraps or run away. He makes the grave mistake of looking over John’s shoulder, spotting Stuart watching them over Astrid’s shoulder with amusement. The desperation flares in both of them, John’s hands fall from his figure and he almost shudders from how much he misses the contact the instant it’s gone. 

“Alright, just- Just try this?” Paul presses his thumbs into the muscle of John’s shoulders and pulls himself closer, and they are eye to eye. He can see the blush tinged over his cheeks, the nervous darting of his eyes around the room. 

John grunts and shrugs him off, “Stupid idea.”

“It’s just a joke, John,” he frowns, panic convulsing and wringing his hope dry, “You’re making it-”

“Got a fucking sick sense of humour, don’t you?” John spits back, and then he’s storming away, leaving Paul in the dust. 

Stuart steps into his line of vision, Astrid under his arm and looking confused. Paul wants nothing more than to sink into the floor and never emerge.

“Alright?” Stuart asks, genuinely concerned. Paul realises that if John has an outburst of anger, Stuart will never ask ‘_ What happened? _ ’, neither will Paul. Because they both understand that the _ why _shouldn’t be poked and prodded when John is in such a state. 

Paul just looks at him, eyes unblinking and fear forcing its way into the cavities of his lungs. _ John wouldn’t have done this the other night. Just him and Stu. He would have been comfortable. _Paul grits his teeth, and starts to head towards the door (not without collecting his and John’s jackets that had been left draped over their chairs). He spots Volker and his dance partner heading into the bathroom, holding hands. An awful pang strikes across his gut as he shakes the images out of his head and bolts towards the door. 

The shadows of figures stalking up and down the streets are merely obstructions in his effort to race after him, infuriating Paul. He wants to claw the darkness, stop the anxious beat of his heart that is making him feel frantic and sucking up sensible thoughts like a ravenous beast. 

John is across the street, shoulders hunched up against the chilly air. 

“Fuckin’ hell! Lenon!” Paul calls out, darting across the road. John whips around, eyes glazed over and mouth screwed into a snarl. Paul slows down, holding out his jacket and the other boy snatches it quickly.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know how to dance like a poof?” John hisses, forcing his arm through the sleeve, his breathing audible. 

“I don’t know either!” Paul exclaims, “Wasn’t the bloody point, was it?! Could ‘ave done a fucking jive, it wouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t a serious thing! Was supposed to be a fucking laugh, John!”

Cars groan along the road beside them, drunken hollers from bar patrons and women in long coats leaning on street lamps with cigarettes pinched between their fingers. And everything is too filthy and too fucking terrifying to cope with. Frustration scrapes against his throat, raging in a desperate effort to unleash itself. To not blame himself for once, to push the burden into John’s arms. Pin the blame on him so Paul doesn’t have to live in agony over this any longer. 

“Seemed pretty important to you,” John snaps, “Had your paws all over me, didn’t you?”

His fingers curl into rigid fists, fingernails leaving painful crescent shapes in the flesh of his palms, “Come off it! You’re just embarrassed. Don’t take it out on me.”

“Yeah, I am embarrassed!” John steps towards him, nose crinkled and cheeks flushed rose, “Because I’m not a fairy! Not about to go dancing around like one!”

“I didn’t say you were,” Paul wants to scream, wants to rip his own hair out, but his voice just stays low and dark and stilted. 

John’s expression transitions into something more pained and woeful before he turns around. He doesn’t walk off though, just stands there with his back to him. An obnoxious blue neon sign flashes beside them, igniting the sheen of John’s jacket and bathing him electric light for stuttered seconds at a time. Paul just stands there, feels his eyes going warm and misty and he feels like an absolute fool. 

He sighs, “Christ, I’m fucking dead on my feet and I’m- I’m just… I’m sorry, alright? Thought it’d be a laugh. Didn’t- Didn’t think. Just wanted to crack up Astrid and Stu when they were all serious, like.”

John shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, huffing, “Let’s just go back.”

Paul swallows, “Back?"

John looks at him, bottom lip twitching, “To bed. Said you’re tired, so am I.”

Paul could burst right here, allow himself to woefully tend to the wounds he’s accumulated tonight. The boy is looking at him, brow furrowed, the energy around him isn’t radianting with a violent edge any more. He suddenly looks as tired as Paul feels, and that night in the alleyway floods back to him. How he thought he saw his soul reflected in the pools of John’s eyes, thought they were experiencing the same thing. And he feels it now, stepping closer and seeing how his movements stir up caution in shadows of his face. The grief, the apologies left unuttered, softening the corners of his mouth and the hue of his eyes. 

He can’t let him see it, all of the emotion he’s tangled up in. All the unwavering devotion. He’d lurk in the shadows with John, he’d stand in the spotlight with him. He’ll continue to bask in the impressions John leaves in those strange sweet moments of sentimentality. He’ll live with the vacancy in the pit of his chest, he’ll endure the helplessness he hates - just to be there beside John. But he’s falling apart with it, can’t pull himself back together quickly enough between heartbreak. John can tell, he knows it. 

There’s something palpable in the gap between their bodies, he can’t tell if it’s smouldering red or a sorrowful blue. Maybe it’s neither. Maybe, as they walk down the street passing by the women with their skirts hitched up to their knees, there is nothing more than the blandness of two bandmates sulking in the streets of Hamburg.

-

Stuart bounds up onto the stage halfway through the band’s set, much to Paul’s gloomy annoyance. He turns over to John, who seems to be unbothered by his mate showing up late. The entire day has had Paul on edge, John had disappeared for most of the day without letting anyone in on his whereabouts. So Paul had plucked the envelope for Cynthia out from where it poked out from under the mattress and posted it on John’s behalf just for something to do (resisting the temptation to look at the words and wonky love hearts scrawled across the enevelope’s side). The events of the previous night had kept sleep at bay, and any sense of peace was beyond him. 

Looking at John now was unnerving, not able to read his body language without driving himself mad with frustration. Across the stage glances and pleading eyes were not enough, and all that emotion was welling up, spilling over into a brashness as he leans closer to the microphone and watches John’s eyes with an intensity that kind of frightened him. Anger and yearning. 

John looks back at him, and instead of the hostility that Paul had expected, he finds something he can’t read. Like they’re trying to figure each other out. Paul sings out, guttural and strong.

_ “I can't stand still! _

_ With the hippy hippy shake! _

_ Ooh, get my thrills now, _

_ With the hippy hippy shake!” _

John keeps staring, sweaty streaks of his hair fallen across his forehead, bouncing on his feet. His lips curl into a grin, because having John’s eyes focused on him - seemingly unable to look away - is thrilling. It’s intoxicating. It’s sweet relief mixed with hot arousal. Pete is crashing about behind them at his kit, and it may as well be his own heartbeat. He tries to twist it up in his mind, imagine John is as enchanted as he is. Imagines that John wants to look away, but can’t. He licks over his bottom lip, bopping his head along to the rhythm and allows his eyes go half-lidded in the way the girls like. Maybe John likes it too, his fingers are sliding messily over the strings of his guitar but doesn’t seem concerned about it. 

They start the next song, John moving closer with his body angled straight towards Paul, like the audience is totally irrelevant now. 

_ “I'm going to Kansas City! _

_ Kansas City, here I come! _

_ They got a crazy way of loving there, _

_ I'm gonna get me some!” _

John’s eyes scan him up and down, not bothering with the chord change as he edges closer. Paul smirks before he pushes out a gravelly sound, like he’s expelling all the emotional angst he’s felt right into John’s face. 

_ “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” _

John leans forward into Paul’s space to use his mic, echoing Paul with a slight quirk of his lips. 

_ “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” _

Paul licks over his lip again and sings out. 

_ “Hey! Baby!” _

John laughs, echoing back again, “_ Hey! Baby!” _

All the tension is dissolved into electric joy, he doesn’t want this to end. They are practically chest to chest (or, guitar to guitar) and crying out with hoarse voices in a way they know they’ll regret soon enough when they have to sing again, but it’s too much to hold it all in. He _ has _ to scream about it, he _ has _to shout. He shakes his head, twisting about and John does the same. 

_ We’re dancing _, Paul thinks with a fluttering of his heart. He wants this as much as he wants the dreamy slow dancing, and if this is all he can have then he’ll take it. But there’s something in John’s eyes that has him recklessly hoping that maybe he wants all of it too. 

-

His hair is dripping with water after another attempt at bathing in the bathroom sink, skin still shimmering and wet, his shirt clinging to his torso awkwardly. He’s on a post-show high like he hasn’t felt in a long time, eager to rush back to the bar and see John. It’s ridiculous, how quickly things changed. All with a look. 

He’s just about to reach out and order a drink at the bar when he fails to find John, but lo and behold, his bandmate steps into his path, in a different set of clothes with his hair combed into his artful teddy boy swirl, “Wanna go somewhere else?”

“Sure,” he replies, following John along through the crowd, passing by Stuart and the exis pair who seem to be organising their night’s exploits as well. It’s silly, but he feels an extra burst of joy that John doesn’t even look over to them. He just wants Paul with him tonight.

He barely feels the cold as they walk through the streets, winding through alleys between buildings where overflowing garbage bins reside. Something is building, something is shifting. And although he and John are exchanging casual conversation, it feels stilted and strange. He’s not sure why, maybe it’s his own head filled with the euphoria of tonight mixed with slight nervousness that he may mess up again.

They stop suddenly, standing behind an unfamiliar building on the concrete strip between it and a fenced off area. He looks to John, unsure. 

“Heard about this film the other day,” John says, “They only play it here.”

“Oh, alright,” Paul nods, combing back his damp hair with his fingers. John nods as he turns towards the door and knocks a few times. The man that opens the door asks him something quietly, and John replies back with a mumbled answer that Paul can’t make out, and then they are ushered in.

The place is less of a cinema and more of a home with a viewing room that they wander towards after vague instructions given to them by a German pair of men stumbling out of the bathroom. Paul feels a new kind of tension now, but remains reasonably outwardly calm as they walk into the small theatre, darkened with a fuzzy blank screen of greyish light projected onto a blank wall. There are about ten or so other men, all dressed in various shades of black and white. It’s like they’ve both fallen into a film themselves, the room unaffected by their presence as they sit in the front row together. 

Paul leans over, shoulder pressing into John, “Looks like an exis crowd.”

John keeps looking straight ahead, “Yeah, Astrid was the one telling me about this place.”

Paul nods, retreating back further into his seat as the hushed voices fade into silence and the projected film begins to play, the light fizzling to a black and white scene set in a forest. A man stalks through, looking lost and frantic as he weaves through the trees and fallen branches. He looks a lot like Stuart, pale and thin with feline eyes and high set prominent cheekbones. There’s a quiet humming of a violin that drums up a kind of tension as the man continues to search. Paul’s hands fidget in the meantime, wondering what John could possibly be thinking now. 

The film cuts to another section of the sombre forest, where a white sheet lays over the dirt and leaves and a different man with darker hair is sprawled out on top of it, smiling serenely to himself with his eyes up towards the sky. The close up on his face holds for a long ten seconds, and Paul doesn’t really know what to do with himself. The violin picks up in tone as the first man steps into the small clearing and sees the other man, looking wide-eyed and bewildered. He approaches slowly, step by step and so slow Paul’s foot starts tapping impatiently on the carpeted floor.

He stops himself at the very edge of the sheet, peering over at the man who is unaffected by his presence, continuing to watch the sky calmly. Paul watches with increasing interest as the Stuart look-alike skirts around the perimeter of the sheet, eyeing the stranger thoughtfully, cautiously. By the time he makes it back to the corner he started at, Paul feels like the tension building up is going to become unbearable. _ Do something! _

The man looks miserable now, mouth turned down and eyes cast to his feet. The shaky camera pans over to the peaceful man, who now looks up. His smile changes shape, shifting into something more curious before he starts to shift over the sheet. He slithers along like a snake, almost, and they keep eye contact. When he makes it to the edge of his sheet, he stops. He reaches out a hand, his shirt sleeve falling like silk around his arm and pulling back a little, exposing the dark fuzz dusting his arm. The first man takes a step back, and the camera closes in on his shoes sinking into the leaves as he does so. The violin is still humming, Paul is on edge. The man on the sheet pulls his body up so that he’s on his knees. His shirt unbuttoned to the navel, showing off his heaving chest and his eyes are still fixed on this stranger. 

The focus shifts, dreamily, and the background is black for a moment. A pale hand cuts through the dark, reaching across. It glows and shimmers against the background. Another hand from the opposite side reaches out and grabs a hold of it - and the music swells up and up and up and suddenly the film cuts to the image of the two men as they were. But now, the slightly timid man takes a step onto the sheet. His shoe brings across dirt and foliage onto the pristine surface. He becomes shy, but doesn’t retreat. He falls down to his knees and faces the stranger. Somehow Paul feels that they are happy, can see it in the look they are giving each other. The film cuts back to the image of the two hands, and then back again to the pair of men. The music dies down, but not solemnly, and the two actors now lay down, their fingers intertwined between their chests as they gaze at each other, lovingly. It holds there, flickers of footage of leaves rustling in the breeze play every few seconds. Footage of flowers facing up towards the sun. Footage of clouds shifting across the pale grey sky. Paul feels his heart in his throat. 

The scene drifts over to where the wind is blowing more leaves onto the white sheet by their feet. Dark grains of dirt spill onto the white, creating a stark contrast. The violin’s wailing becomes more shrill and panicked, Paul is nervously picking at the hem of his shirt. The two men whip their heads over to see all the leaves and dirt, now pouring into the clean space. They both become distraught, springing up and trying to kick against the mess, flinging it out with their hands. But it makes no substantial difference, and they are both sweating and panting and desperate. The white sheen of their sweaty foreheads, the dirt now covering their hands. They look to each other, confused and saddened. The violin lowers in tone, in pitch, in volume. The first man runs his hands over his face, dirt smearing over his cheeks and jaw. The footage of the two hands reaching out towards each other plays again, but reversed this time, so that they separate. Paul’s stomach drops from some great height because he knows what will happen next. 

He watches with helpless sadness as the first man retreats back, stepping off of the sheet. A closeup of his face reveals tears now streaming through the dirt, revealing the pale white of his skin. He looks distraught, lips trembling. The second man watches him go, standing and seeming distressed as well. The camera slowly pulls back, revealing that the white sheet is now gone, and so is his companion. He falls down to his knees, curling over with his hands dragging back and forth through the forest floor. He lays down, eyes shut tight as he cries. The image darkens to black and the music fades into buzzing silence. Someone in the audience sniffles, and Paul realises his heart is thumping under his hand where he has pressed it against his chest. He looks to John, who has his glassy eyes still watching the wall that now only has a blank slate of white light projected onto it. 

They don’t speak as they exit the room, and John seems depressed when he pushes the door open and steps on through back outside. Paul is watching him, feeling the urge to say something but he knows he can’t exactly be thoughtless when navigating this issue. Those men were in love, he knows it. He knows that the audience was a small cluster of queers. He knows all of this and so John must know it too. He just doesn’t know what to do with the information. The air is colder than it had been when they first got here. He rubs his hands over the goosebumps that rise on his exposed arms as the door slams shut behind them. 

“What now?” he asks. Of all things that he anticipates happening, John laughing is not one of them. But of course, that’s what happens. He cackles in a way that startles Paul, and turns around to face him with his expression closely resembling the one John pulls before he insults someone. Paul braces himself for impact.

“What? Nothing to say, Paul?” like the words have been pushed out of his chest by force. 

Paul wipes over his mouth, anxiously, “About the film?”

John looks almost angered by him, “No, mate, _ about the fucking weather. _” 

It’s last night’s wrath regurgitated, and Paul _ really _doesn’t want to do this again. He squares his shoulders and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I can’t talk to you like this,” he says and turns his back to his friend and begins to walk. John grabs a hold of his arm and turns him around again, and Paul’s mind flashes back to the image of two hands reaching for each other. He pushes back out of John’s grip with a frustrated sigh. 

“Don’t leave.”

Paul stills and finds John’s mood has changed, unguarded eyes are now just pools of darkened pleas. His chest feels pressed, trying to steady himself amongst the evolution of John’s moods throughout these past two days. He may as well be a pitiful tugboat on the water battling against an epic and raging storm. It’s no use, he’ll never be settled with John like Stuart is. He’ll never be the friend he should be. And yet, John is asking him to stay. And there’s vulnerability there, and Paul doesn’t know if he should test it. 

“I want to know what you thought of it,” John’s voice wavers slightly. 

He swallows, “I-I don’t know. It’s not something I-”

John’s face falls a little, and Paul’s pulse picks up, “- I liked it, though. It was different. You said Astrid told you about it? Makes sense, she’s got good taste.”

Something stirs between them, and Paul has to take a step back into the wall to be able to breathe. He wants to ask the same question, but can’t find the courage amongst all the confused fear charged in his gut. 

“She didn’t tell me about it,” John admits and steps closer, “Volker did.”

With only foggy moonlight to guide him, he observes the subtle changes in John’s eyes. From reluctance, to fear, to defiance and back to fear. He blinks back the emotion seeping into his own body language, tilting his gaze upwards towards the tops of the bare branches of the trees. He can’t stand this. Can’t stand the uncertainty. The flickering back and forth between hopeful wanting and painful yearning. He needs John to strike down his hope down so it’ll never rise again all the while he needs him to affirm everything he is suffering through with-

_ A kiss? _ He swallows his pride and meets John’s eyes. _ Do something! _

With shaking hands, he surges forward, stopping just short of the tips of their noses brushing. He lays his hands over John’s shoulders, fingers trembling. John’s lips part as his breath hitches, and then he’s closing the gap between them and pressing his mouth to Paul’s. 

The heat radiating from John’s face, his body - it warms Paul into a liquid-like stance. They press together, Paul’s back knocking into the wall behind him and his breath gusts against John’s cheek like a sigh. John echoes it back, hands holding the sides of Paul’s face with his fingerpads pushing through his hair, pressing into his scalp. John’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip, and the moans rising up from their throats are almost primal, but there is something so soft about how they kiss. He pushes closer and closer, chasing all the buzzing warmth, drowning in it. His fingers curl around John’s biceps, squeezing and holding on for dear life because he can’t rely on his feet. John sucks on his bottom lip, hands cradling Paul’s jaw and holding him in place. It’s mind-numbing. It’s vivid and crisp and so fucking hot. His skin is burning with it, grinding a little against John with it. His hand snakes back up to his shoulder, and then around the back of his neck, blunt nails probably digging into the skin and leaving marks. His hips are incessant in chasing John, to feel every inch of him. All the possessiveness he’s ever felt pours out from the deepest place inside of him and tangles around the both of them. Their mouths feel bruised and wet and he doesn't want this to stop. 

“Ah, fuck,” John whines between kisses, Paul mouthing at his jaw in an attempt to pull him back. John’s hands grab a hold of his hips, but unlike the previous night, Paul doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind the way John’s thigh slots between his because they are two halves of a whole being pulled together, and everything feels too good to pull away from. His jaw is lazy and a little slack as John presses kisses into his neck, hands slipping under his shirt and holding the warm flesh of his waist. 

“Oh,” Paul moans, head tilting back and eyes glazed over with the ecstasy of the friction they’re creating. His lashes flutter, feeling the strain inside his pants. Feeling John strained against him, too. And he knows that John is a randy bastard at the worst of times, but he feels flushed and hot at the thought that _ he _did that to him. That Paul drives him as mad as he could hope. The lewd sounds he’s making seem to stir John further, so he keeps it up - but doesn’t overdo it. Solar flares burst behind his ribs when he hears John groaning his name into the shell of his ear. Everything is burning up and brilliant.

When they split apart, breathing heavy and warm into the space between their raw red lips, the intimacy is still there. It stays locked into place - in the soft hold Paul has on John’s shoulder blades, in the press of John’s thumbs into the flesh just above Paul’s waistband, in the sweep of their lashes as they absorb the moment.

Their foreheads press together, breathing in the intimacy, “I- I can’t… It’s so good, with you.”

Paul’s chest could burst with how he’s feeling, his voice is a little croaky when he says, “I know. I’m not- y’know. But this is just...” 

John’s lips ghost over his, and the tingling sensation has him shivering. There is something feather soft drifting back and forth between their eyes. Paul has to look away for a moment, overwhelmed with how it feels for John to look at him like that. 

“I’m not either,” John’s assures, “But... I want it. With you. Feels good, getting off with your best mate.”

Paul’s chest swells, and he can only nod and murmur, “Feels really bloody good.”

John smirks, huffing a small laugh, “D’ye think, maybe, we’ll just go for it… when we feel like it? ‘Cos I’m not givin’ up birds or anything… not giving up Cy-... ‘m just saying it’s- us_ ...together _.”

He’s dizzy with how it feels for John to tell him this. His pulse points are like butterfly wings beating. The slight tremble in his voice when he speaks, the eyes boring into him with intensity - it's what Paul couldn’t have even dreamed up. Not in the drunken and aroused states he’d work himself into at the bar with John nearby, skin dewy with sweat and laughter rattling him. Not even in the golden soft moments back home, writing songs and singing in sweet harmonies together. 

“So good,” his mouth feels like fuzz, and his voice is still quiet and low. 

John smiles, half shy and half teasing when he rolls his hips against Paul’s, “_ Good _, eh?”

Paul arches his back, chest flushing in arousal, “Fuck...don’t-”

“Don’t what? Don’t tease you?” John snickers and pulls his hips back, “You’re the biggest fucking tease I know.” 

Paul arches a brow, steadying himself against the wall with his eyes half-lidded, “How am I a tease?”

John licks over his bottom lip as he looks Paul up and down, “You just...get to me.”

The moment folds into something soft and dazed, affection curling around his heart. He feels himself blush at the look John has right now. They don’t have to talk about last night, about the anger and tension and everything that happened before tonight. Frankly, Paul would be fine if they never discussed it. Maybe he’d wonder when John first started to notice him, but right now he’s certain that it was always there for him, so it would have always been there for John as well. And he never wants that perspective to change. Wants to keep the rosey interpretation and always know it to be true. If John ever decided that this was just a perverted whim and tossed him aside, he doesn’t want to believe him. The way he’s feeling right now, with John looking at him like this, he won’t ever believe such a thing. They’ve been baring their souls to each other for the last few years, piece by piece, and now they know each other completely. And he won’t let go. 

“Are- are we going to go back?” his head is so fuzzy with sentiment he barely knows how he means that. _ Don’t go back. I want to stay like this. _

John looks over his shoulder, “Want somewhere more private. Could just lock the door to our room, can’t we?”

Another wave of heat surges over him, “Yeah. We’ll do that.”

-

The room is empty (Paul almost cries out in relief), and the lock doesn’t take much forceful persuasion to clamp shut. A wonky wooden chair that had been used to hold up George’s bag is repurposed into further securing the door shut, propped under the doorknob. There’s uncertainty in not knowing what will happen when John turns around to face him again. He sits himself down on his mattress, hand smoothing over the pillow John had given him, taking slow lungfuls of air and breathing out slowly. 

John approaches him with caution, but glides his hands over Paul’s shoulders smoothly and pushes them both down against the mattress with half-confidence. It doesn’t take much to become frantic again, grinding and kissing with feverish desire. It’s like they are the burst of fire against the dark and dreary backdrop, all the heat and energy kept between their bodies. 

John rolls off of him onto his side, fumbling with the fly of his pants with one shaking hand and tugging them down. Paul does the same, overwhelmed by the sight of John’s hard cock flushed red and pressed up against his hip. When he finally grips himself, stroking slowly - just for a bit of relief - he whimpers. And the sound is swallowed up when John kisses him again, pulling him over and on top of him. He straddles him, pumping himself as he sits back on John’s thighs and watches him. In the desperation to absorb everything, eyes darting from his hand to his eyes and back down again, he pushes up his hips. Their knuckles knock together, as they jerk in time with each other. And it would be enough, but John is writhing about and huffing and Paul knows what he wants. He nudges John’s hand away, and without much thought or consideration behind it - just heat and lust, he wraps his fingers around John’s prick. He leans forward, pressing their cocks together. It has his entire body shuddering and tingling as he pumps them both. He’s sensitive and obscenely hot all over. It builds and builds, like nothing he’s ever known before. John has his face half-mashed into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut like he can’t take it. 

“Look at me,” Paul breathes out, and John responds. His thighs are shaking underneath him as they watch each other, keeping the rhythmic rocking of their hips because it would burn if they separated for even a second. 

“Fuck,” John reaches out to wind his slender fingers around his cock and hold him for a moment before he starts up in time with Paul. Their fingers brush together, it feels too good to keep up for too long. John spills out with a shudder, head falling back and mouth agape. Paul fucks up against the heat the visual invokes, skin sliding together and rubbing raw, the goosebumps along his spine rising when his body quivers and he comes over their hands. 

He slumps over, half of his body crumpling on top of John as the afterglow envelopes him in a glorious leisurely buzz. They stay there, catching their breaths, Paul rolling over onto his back, feeling pleased when John follows his movements and turns over to curl close to him. His mouth is pressed to Paul’s shoulder, their ankles locked together. The intimacy swirling around them is tangible, Paul could almost reach out and thread his fingers through that golden blur. He can’t string words together, his throat an odd mixture of wet and dry. His body feels like it’s glowing, maybe _ they _are glowing. He exhales in exaggerated way, making John smile against his skin. 

“John…” Paul starts, but doesn’t know where he’ll end up, so he shuts his mouth and closes his eyes. 

“Hmm?” John’s fingers trail up his arm - like they’re real lovers. Paul’s heart clenches, lips fizzling with the gentle kiss he wants to press to John’s mouth right now. He’s boneless and heavy but so elated, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

The sound of footsteps outside their door makes them both jump. 

They hurry and wipe themselves down and reach out to grab their pants off the floor. The knocking on the door comes just as they manage to appear somewhat presentable, Paul sitting up on the bed as John bounds over to the door. Then his posture changes from rushed to relaxed, and he looks over at Paul with some kind of expression that clearly reads as cheeky scheming. 

“Hello?” a voice calls out to them.

“What’s the password?” John replies, making Paul laugh.

“The password is ‘I need sleep’,” Stuart’s voice calls back. 

“No, sorry, son. Got to keep this place safe. Need the _ right _password,” John clicks his tongue. Paul looks over at him, leaning against the door with a wicked grin. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair is a laughable mess, and he looks so good. The best he’s ever looked, Paul thinks. 

“How ‘bout, ‘Open the bloody door, John, I need some fucking sleep’?” 

“That’s not the password either,” John tuts, folding his arms in a camp way. The door starts to rattle but John doesn’t give in, Paul gives him a questioning look but no explanation for his stubbornness is given. 

“You know, if you’re shagging someone, you just had to say so,” Stuart sighs, still sounding a little amused, though.

“So!” John flashes a grin and Paul just sinks back into the mattress and holds back his giggling.

“Christ, you drive us all mad, John,” Stuart gives up with a half-laugh and his soft footsteps fade away as he leaves, and the silence that follows cracks them both up into laughter.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Paul sighs, watching John through sleepy eyes as he walks back over to sit at the foot of the bed.

“I’d like to see him try.”

“He’ll quit if you keep it up,” Paul warns, but it’s in jest, “I suppose Astrid’s bed is better, though, he might thank us.”

“Thought that’s what you wanted, for him to quit. Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” John muses as he shifts himself back to lay down shoulder to shoulder with Paul.

“Might not be the best thing, either,” Paul quips back, “He’ll hold a grudge against us for forcing him to buy that bloody guitar.”

“Don’t be so cynical,” John teases, tugging the pillow from under Paul’s head for himself, “He wouldn’t have found his precious girlfriend without us.”

“Oi! I was using that,” Paul protests, but he’s smiling.

“Give to the needy.”

“Yeah, right,” Paul rolls his eyes, humour lacing his tone. And then John is sliding over the pillow, and they both rest their heads on it, nose to nose. 

“Charity starts at home,” John mumbles, eyes falling shut. _ Home _. Paul wants to pepper his face with kisses, all this fondness warming his chest. 

“Could do with some more charity,” Paul mutters, watching the grin stretch over John’s face.

“I could give you another handy, but I’m dead tired now,” John simpers, “How’s that for charity?”

Paul feels himself starting to drift off, sleep clouding his mind pleasantly, “Very generous of you.”

He doesn’t know how much time goes by, a few minutes, a half hour? But he knows that he’s teetering on the edge of actual deep sleep now that the flurry of emotion has settled into his bones. And he knows when he hears a sharp intake of breath on John’s side of the bed that he’s about to speak. He can feel it in the air in the mere seconds before he says anything. 

“You know it was always you.”

The words encase his heart, securing everything into place. He can barely make his lips twitch into a small smile, let alone open his eyes to acknowledge him. Maybe he really is asleep. Maybe he’s dreaming. And as terrifying as this will all be when he wakes up, he can hardly bring himself to care now. At this moment, he’s snug and secure and relieved, so he’ll always make sure John knows. That he knows he’ll see it all in Paul's eyes, reflected back. Two mirrors facing each other, two hearts opened to each other. Lennon and McCartney. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I know it is quite short, but I hope it was enjoyable!  
Housekeeping:  
The chapter title is from a Stuart Sutcliffe poem.  
The film that John and Paul watch in this chapter does not exist, and is more of a combination of bits and pieces from existential films with homoerotic undertones I've read about and seen here and there.  
Please feel free to message me on tumblr. I'm thisbirdhadflownx  
Thank you once again!


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